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NANCY'S 
COUNTRY  CHRISTMAS 


Nancy's 
Country  Christmas 

AND   OTHER   STORIES 

BY 

ELEANOR   HOYT 

Author  of  "  The  Misdemeanors  of  Nancy" 


Frontiipiece  by  Anna   U^helan  Belts 


NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE    &   COMPANY 
1904 


Copyright,  1901,  by 

Harper  &  Brothers 

Copyright,  1901,  1902,  by 

John  Wanamaker 

Copyright,  1903,  by 

The  Curtis  Publishing  Company 

Copyright,  1903,  by 

P.  F.  Collier  &  Son 

Copyright,  1904,  by 

The  Library  Publishing  Company 

Copyright,  1904,  by 
The  Ridgway-Thayer  Company 

Copyright,  1902,  1904,  by 

Doubleday,   Page   &   Company 

Published,  October,    1904 


CONTENTS 

I.     Nancy's  Country  Christmas 
II.     In  Oklahoma 

III.  The    Little    God    and    the 

Machine 

IV.  In  the  Light  of  the  Christ 

mas  Candles   . 

V.  A  Visiting  Peer  . 

VI.  The  Vanishing  Boarder 

VII.  Gowns  and  a  Gobolink 

VIII.  A  Disturber  of  the  Peace     . 

IX.  The  Littlest  Sister       . 

X.  Women  are  Made  Like  That 


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117 

H5 
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207 


2136137 


NANCY'S 
COUNTRY  CHRISTMAS 


NANCY'S   COUNTRY   CHRISTMAS 

MOLLY  BLESSINGTON  was  reponsi- 
ble  for  the  whole  affair.  At  least, 
that  is  Nancy's  theory. 

It  was  in  the  summer  of  '98  that  the  Bless- 
ingtons  bought  their  country  place  at  Hilldale, 
New  Hampshire.  When  November  came 
Molly's  enthusiasm  was  still  intact,  and  she 
flatly  refused  to  go  back  to  city  duresse  and 
open  the  big  town  house. 

"We'll  stay  here  and  entertain  a  Christmas 
house-party,"  she  said  cheerfully.  Dick  Bless- 
ington  did  not  yearn  for  a  merry  Yule-tide  in 
the  wilds  of  New  England;  but,  being  wise  in 
his  generation,  he  did  not  mention  that  fact. 

"Nobody  will  come,"  he  asserted  hopefully. 
"  You  couldn't  get  any  of  the  fellows  up  here 
if  you'd  promise  all  of  them  ten-thousand- 
dollar  cheques  in  their  Christmas  stockings." 

"They '11  all  come." 

"But  why?" 

"I'll  have  Nancy.  So  I'll  have  the  men, 
and,  having  eligible  men,  girls  will  be  a  drug 
in  the  market.  It's  quite  simple." 

3 


4  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

Mr.  Blessington  recognised  the  force  of  the 
logic,  but  fired  a  final  gun. 

"She  won't  come." 

"She  has  promised." 

Molly's  impromptus  are  usually  the  result 
of  careful  planning.  Her  husband  lighted  a 
cigar  and  resigned  himself  to  the  inevitable. 

"  I  suppose  you've  invited  the  gang  al 
ready?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

She  looked  at  him  and  he  struggled  for  stern 
disapproval.  Then  they  both  laughed.  The 
Blessingtons  are  very  young  and  exceeding 
foolish. 

At  three  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  Decem 
ber  24th  an  express  train  thundered  into  a  little 
New  England  station,  spilled  Nancy  and  a 
few  other  passengers  on  a  snow-drifted  plat 
form,  and  whizzed  away  into  the  driving 
storm.  On  the  other  side  of  the  station  a 
stunted  engine  was  fidgeting  and  hurling  ill- 
natured  remarks  at  three  ramshackle,  com 
fortless  cars.  The  exiles  from  the  through 
line  boarded  the  stuffy,  stove-heated  train. 
The  engine  went  through  a  final  paroxysm  of 
rage  and  pulled  sulkily  out  into  a  whirling 
white  world. 
,.-  Nancy  tucked  herself  into  a  grimy  red  plush 


Nancy's  Country  Christmas  5 

seat  and  gave  herself  up  to  thinking  unutter 
able  things  about  her  dressmaker.  If  that 
obnoxious  person  had  sent  the  promised 
gowns  home  on  time,  the  young  woman  for 
whose  use  the  gowns  were  intended  would  now 
have  been  wearing  the  delectable  new  tea- 
gown  in  front  of  a  blazing  log-fire  at  The  Oaks, 
instead  of  rattling  along  in  an  air-tight  oven 
over  a  fluted  road-bed.  The  past  thought  that 
some  six  or  seven  young  men  were  missing 
that  tea-gown  afforded  a  certain  solace.  Nancy 
wondered,  with  something  approaching  cheer 
fulness,  whether  they  had  all  taken  her  train 
the  day  before.  On  the  whole,  perhaps,  it  was 
amusing  to  be  a  day  behind  schedule  time. 

The  conductor  called  out  the  stations  in  a 
fretful  bawl.  They  all  sounded  more  or  less 
alike  in  his  translation.  Nancy  dozed,  and 
dreamed,  and  awoke,  and  dozed  again.  Finally 
she  slept  soundly,  huddled  in  a  corner. 

She  awoke  with  a  start.  The  window  was 
black.  Ill-smelling  lamps  had  been  lighted. 
Only  three  other  passengers  were  left  in  the 
car.  An  awful  misgiving  smote  her.  She  had 
a  vision  of  a  Christmas  pudding  vanishing  in 
a  storm-swept  distance.  The  train  was  due 
in  Hilldale  at  seven-thirty.  Had  she  been 
carried  past?  She  felt  for  her  watch,  then 


6  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

remembered  it  had  not  been  wound  in  days. 
She  looked  for  the  conductor.  He  had 
fled  to  other  haunts.  She  opened  her 
lips  to  ask  a  nodding  old  man  for  infor 
mation,  but  it  wasn't  necessary.  The  train 
stopped  with  a  lurch.  A  youthful  brakeman 
opened  the  front  door  and  yelled  "  Hilldale  !  " 
Nancy  blessed  her  guardian  angel,  gathered 
up  her  bag  and  umbrella,  and  hurried  out 
through  the  rear  door.  A  moment  later  she 
was  standing  on  a  tiny  platform,  beside  a 
bandbox  station. 

No  one  of  the  six  to  give  her  effusive 
welcome?  She  looked  about  her  incredu 
lously. 

Then  she  registered  a  mental  vow  that  the 
storm-bound  laggards  should  pay  heavily  for 
their  defection  before  the  season  of  good 
will  to  men  had  passed. 

At  least,  Molly  had  sent  the  carriage.  It 
was  waiting  farther  down  the  platform — a  snug 
brougham,  looking  out  of  place  in  the  vast 
solitude. 

Nancy  struggled  toward  it,  against  the 
howling  wind. 

There  was  a  snow-man  on  the  box. 

"You  came  for  me?"  asked  Nancy. 

The  snow-man  touched  his  huge  white  hat. 


Nancy's  Country  Christmas  7 

"Yes,  miss,"  he  said,  with  muffled  respect. 
"Atkins  will  get  your  boxes." 

He  leaned  over  and  opened  the  door. 

Nancy  climbed  in  and  sank  back  upon  the 
cushion.  This  was  more  like  it. 

The  carriage  rolled  away,  but  not  swiftly, 
for  the  horses  were  floundering  breast-high 
in  drifts. 

The  drive  was  a  long  one,  but  at  last  the 
carriage  stopped  before  a  rambling  old  stone 
house.  The  door  flew  open,  letting  a  great 
wave  of  light  and  colour  surge  out  into  the 
night.  A  man  ran  down  the  steps.  In  the 
darkness  Nancy  could  not  recognise  him. 
She  looked  past  him,  expecting  to  see  Molly's 
face  in  the  doorway,  but  it  wasn't  there. 

The  man  opened  the  carriage  door.  Nancy 
stepped  out.  A  jest  was  on  her  lips,  but  it 
was  never  launched;  the  lips  were  otherwise 
engaged.  The  man  had  gathered  the  young 
woman  into  a  vigorous  embrace,  and  was 
kissing  her  with  an  enthusiasm  that  left  her 
no  breath  for  protest.  Then  he  lifted  her  in 
his  arms,  carried  her  lightly  up  the  steps,  and 
set  her  down  on  the  broad  veranda. 

"Merry  Christmas!"  he  said  jovially. 

For  once  in  her  career  Nancy  Reynolds  was 
speechless.  Words  seemed  so  hopelessly  in- 


8  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

adequate.  The  light  streaming  out  from  the 
hall  fell  upon  her  bewildered  and  angry  face. 

The  Man  looked  down  at  her,  started,  stared 
and  backed  violently  away  from  her. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  stammered,  in  awestruck 
tones.  "G — good  Lord!"  Then  he  added, 
in  a  small,  hushed  voice  that  quavered:  "I 
thought  you  were  Nell." 

The  scathing  remarks  for  which  Nancy 
racked  her  brain  refused  to  be  dragged  into  the 
open.  She  felt  a  horrible  conviction  that 
inside  of  thirty,  seconds  she  would  inevitably 
cry. 

"Where's  Molly?"  she  asked  weakly. 

"  Molly  ? "     The  man's  face  was  a  blank. 

"Isn't  this  Mr.  Blessington's  place?" 

"  Blessington's  ? "  He  was  a  mere  helpless 
echo.  Nancy's  wrath  surged  higher.  Her  ex 
pression  spurred  the  echo  into  original  utter 
ance. 

"Why,  no.  My  name  is  Monroe.  I  was 
expecting  my  sister.  But  won't  you  come  in  ? 
You  mustn't  stand  out  here.  I'm  very  sorry. 
I  don't  see— I  don't  know— I— I-  -"  He 
trailed  off  into  utter  rout  and  confusion,  and 
his  unexpected  guest  stepped  into  the  big  hall. 

It  was  a  cheerful  place.  Huge  logs  blazed 
gaily  on  the  hearth  and  sent  flickering  shadows 


Nancy's  Country  Christmas  9 

over  the  panelled  wainscoting,  the  rugs,  the 
tall  book-cases,  the  curving  stairway.  The 
red  shades  of  the  lamps  seemed  as  warm  as  the 
dancing  flames.  Easy  chairs  were  drawn  in 
vitingly  near  the  fire.  The  odor  of  cigar 
smoke  clung  to  the  air.  The  big  table  was 
littered  with  books  and  magazines.  Through 
a  half-open  door  to  the  left  there  was  a  glimpse 
of  another  table,  where  shaded  candle-light  fell 
softly  upon  white  napery  and  china  and  glass. 

Nancy  was  cold,  despite  her  burning  wrath. 
Incidentally,  she  was  very  hungry.  She  looked 
appreciatively  toward  the  fire.  She  shot  a 
glance  toward  the  festive  promise  behind  the 
half-open  door.  Then  she  lifted  her  eyes  and 
looked,  fairly  and  squarely,  at  six-feet-two  of 
mute  masculine  misery. 

The  anger  in  her  eyes  was  diluted  with 
curiosity.  Nell's  brother  was  good  to  look  at, 
even  when  hopelessly  embarrassed  and  dis 
tinctly  afraid  of  a  small,  insulted  young 
woman.  His  blue  eyes  held  a  desperate  appeal 
for  mercy.  Alarm  and  amusement  were 
struggling  with  his  clean-cut  lips. 

He  was  a  gentleman.  The  most  casual 
glance  would  have  decided  that.  Nancy 
turned  to  the  fire.  After  all,  if  one  must  be 
kissed  and  carried  up  front  steps  by  a 


io  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

stranger,  things  might  have  been  worse;  but 
she  held  fast  to  her  injured  dignity. 

"  Could  you  direct  me  to  Mrs.  Blessington's  ?  " 
she  asked,  icily. 

The  man  looked  unhappy. 

"  I  wish  I  could  help  you,  but  I  don't  know 
of  any  such  place.  It  can't  be  near  here." 

"But  this    is  Hilldale." 

"Oh,  no!  This  is  Hinsdale.  Hilldale  is 
about  fifty  miles  farther  west." 

Nancy  dropped  limply  into  a  chair. 

"  I  thought  the  brakeman  called  Hilldale.  I 
was  half  asleep.  Could  you  let  your  coachman 
take  me  back  to  the  station?" 

The  man  looked  more  embarrassed  than 
ever. 

"But  there's  no  train  to-night." 

Nancy  gasped. 

"  Then  if  you  would  please  tell  me  where  to 
find  a  hotel  or  a  boarding-place." 

"I'm  afraid  there's  nothing  of  the  kind 
within  miles.  You  see,  there's  no  village  here — 
nothing  but  the  station." 

The  haughty  guest  was  rapidly  reaching  a 
state  of  confusion  equal  to  that  of  her 
host. 

"The  station—  "  she  began;  but  he  inter 
rupted  her. 


Nancy's  Country  Christmas  n 

"  Miserable  little  hole.  The  agent  lives  there 
alone." 

"If  I  could  drive  to  a  village,"  Nancy 
faltered. 

"There  isn't  one  within  eighteen  miles,  and 
you  couldn't  get  there  to-night  over  these 
roads." 

Nancy  longed  for  her  wrath  of  an  earlier 
moment.  Anything  would  be  better  than 
crying,  and  she  felt  that  tears  were  due.  One 
actually  broke  loose  and  rolled  dismally  down 
her  cheek. 

The  man  stepped  forward  impulsively. 

"Don't,"  he  said  entreatingly.  "You  will 
be  quite  all  right  here.  I'm  delighted  to  be  of 
service.  Of  course,  it  is  annoying  for  you,  and 
you  are  disappointed  and  miserable,  but  Mrs. 
Wilson  will  make  you  comfortable  to-night, 
and  to-morrow  I'll  do  anything  I  can.  Just 
consider  the  house  yours.  Now,  if  Nell  were 
only  here.  I'm  such  a  duffer.  I—  Oh, 
don't,  please  don't." 

The  tears  were  trickling  fast  now.  Nancy 
dabbed  hastily  at  her  eyes  with  a  limp  wad  of 
kerchief. 

"I'm  j — j — ust  t — t — ired  and  c — cold," 
she  said,  miserably. 

Mine  host   disappeared.     In  a  moment   he 


12  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

came  back  with  a  decanter,  a  glass,  and  a  fat, 
elderly  woman  to  whom  he  was  offering  voluble, 
if  confusing,  explanation. 

When  she  saw  Nancy,  she  brushed  the 
Man- Body  away  unceremoniously. 

"Why,  you  poor  lamb,"  she  clucked,  like  a 
comfortable  mother-hen,  and  in  a  jiffy  she 
had  whisked  off  the  damp  coat  and  hat,  tucked 
two  cushions  behind  the  limp  little  figure,  put 
a  footstool  under  two  diminutive  feet,  and 
administered  a  heroic  dose  of  whisky.  The 
ineffectual  masculine  stood  by,  awkwardly 
holding  the  decanter  and  looking  relieved. 

"You'll  stay  right  here  the  night,"  clucked 
the  housekeeper.  "  Miss  Nell's  room's  all  ready. 
You  just  rest  there  a  minute  and  then  I'll  take 
you  up-stairs.  You'll  be  needing  your  dinner, 
poor  child." 

Fifteen  minutes  later  Nancy  came  slowl.y 
down  the  curving  stairway.  She  was  dry  and 
warm,  and  her  spirits  had  soared. 

Her  host  stood  waiting  on  the  hearth-rug, 
and  came  forward  with  ill-concealed  trepida 
tion  to  meet  her. 

They  looked  at  each  other  politely.  Then, 
suddenly,  Nancy  laughed.  When  Nancy  laughs 
her  dimples  have  their  way. 

Colin  Monroe  went  down  before  the  dimples. 


Nancy's  Country  Christmas  13 

"And  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  kissing," 
he  reflected,  ruefully. 

It  was  a  pleasant  little  dinner.  Visions  of 
Molly  and  the  six  rose  occasionally  before 
Nancy's  eyes.  The  thought  of  her  mother's 
sentiments,  could  she  but  behold  her  wandering 
child,  deepened  the  pink  in  her  cheeks;  but 
her  conscience  was  clear. 

As  for  Colin  Monroe,  he  vowed  a  royal 
offering  to  the  god  of  chance.  To  expect  a 
sister — even  the  dearest  of  sisters — and  to  get 
this !  He  sighed  for  satisfaction,  and  beamed 
across  the  holly  at  the  young  woman  in  the 
blue  travelling  frock. 

"I'm  so  sorry  you  should  be  disappointed 
about  your  sister's  coming,"  murmured  Nancy, 
sympathetically. 

"Oh,  I'm  glad  it — that  is,  I'm  sure  nothing's 
wrong.  She  probably  telegraphed,  but  tele 
grams  usually  reach  this  out-of-the-way  place 
a  week  after  they  are  sent." 

"Has  she  been  gone  long?"  Nancy  asked. 

"Years.  You  see,  it's  like  this.  We  all 
lived  here  when  Nell  and  I  were  youngsters. 
Then  we  lost  our  father  and  mother,  and  this 
old  home  was  sold.  I  went  to  school,  and 
spent  my  holidays  in  the  office  of  a  bachelor 
uncle.  Nell  went  abroad  with  an  aunt  and 


14  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

has  been  there  ever  since.  I  finished  college, 
settled  down  to  work,  and  had  no  chance  to  go 
to  Europe.  This  fall  my  uncle  dropped  off 
suddenly,  poor  old  chap.  He  left  me  his  money. 
There's  a  lot  of  it.  Then  Nell  wrote  that  they 
were  coming  back  to  America  to  stay,  and 
would  be  in  New  York  December  23d.  It 
struck  me  it  would  be  a  lark  to  buy  the  old 
home,  get  it  as  nearly  into  the  old  shape  as 
possible,  and  have  the  little  sister  come  here 
for  Christmas.  She  liked  the  idea,  and  it  all 
went  smoothly  until — 

"I  came,"  finished  Nancy,  apologetically. 
"I'm  so  sorry." 

"  Don't  be  sorry,"  urged  the  devoted  brother. 
"I'm  not — at  least  (with  a  pang  of  contrition 
for  his  own  disloyalty),  I'd  like  to  see  Nell,  but 
— oh,  hang  it !  A  fellow  couldn't  be  sorry, 
you  know." 

Nancy  smiled. 

After  dinner  they  put  up  holly.  There  was 
a  load  of  it,  and  acquaintance  ripens  astonish 
ingly  under  the  influence  of  Christmas  holly. 
There's  some  insidious  spirit  of  festivity  and 
good-will  lurking  in  the  Yule-tide  green-and- 
red;  and  when  step-ladders  wobble,  and  hands 
touch,  and  holly-berry  crimson  is  reflected  in 
dimpled  cheeks,  and  a  maid  looks  up  and  a 


Nancy's  Country  Christmas  15 

man  looks  down — well,  acquaintance  makes 
progress.  Nancy  has  helped  many  a  man  put 
up  holly.  In  fact,  she's  by  way  of  being  a 
connoisseur  on  Christmas  decoration. 

When,  at  a  discreetly  early  hour,  she  said 
good-night,  she  left  behind  her  six-feet-two 
of  shining  radiance. 

Christmas  morning  dawned  clear  and  cold. 
It  was  nine  o'clock  before  Nancy  strolled 
down  into  the  holly-decked  hall.  Since  there 
would  be  no  train  until  noon,  why  hurry? 

Her  host  had  already  breakfasted  when  she 
put  in  an  appearance;  but,  while  she  lingered 
over  her  coffee,  he  came  in,  clad  in  riding 
clothes  and  glowing  from  the  tingling  cold. 

"I've  been  down  to  the  station,"  he  an 
nounced,  after  Christmas  greetings,  "  and  I 
have  bad  news  for  you." 

His  air  of  joyous  elation  was  a  misfit  upon  a 
bearer  of  sad  tidings,  and  he  realised  it;  but 
his  effort  to  look  politely  sympathetic  was  a 
dismal  failure. 

"Everything  is  tied  up  along  the  line. 
There  will  be  no  train  through  from  either 
direction  before  evening,  if  then." 

His  smile  was  openly  radiant. 

Nancy  has  better  control  over  her  facial 
muscles.  She  looked  pathetically  distressed. 


1 6  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

"And  it  isn't  possible  to  drive  to  Hilldale?" 

"Out  of  the  question." 

"  Then  I  must  impose  upon  you  a  few  hours 
longer."  She  left  the  table,  walked  to  the 
window,  and  stood  looking  out  at  the  snow. 
Suddenly  she  turned.  Her  eyes  were  dancing; 
her  dimples  \vere  riotous;  she  looked  uncom 
monly  like  a  very  bad  child.  She  held  out  her 
hand. 

"Isn't  it  a  lark?"  she  said  gaily.  "What 
shall  we  play?  I  feel  equal  to  pussy  wants  a 
corner,  or  tag." 

"Post-office,"  suggested  the  Man-Body, 
promptly. 

"Not  enough  of  us,"  objected  Nancy. 

"Plenty,"  insisted  the  Man-Body,  firmly. 
"  The  basic  principle  of  post-office  requires 
only  two.  It's  the  same  way  with  'pillows 
and  keys.'  Would  you  rather  play  that?" 

"Got  any  marshmallows ? "  asked  the  bad 
child. 

"Oodles  of  'em." 

"And  chestnuts?" 

"Rather." 

"  We'll  roast  them  after  a  while.  What 
would  you  and  your  sister  have  done,  if  she 
had  come?  Let's  pretend  I  am  your  sister?" 

The  man  shook  his  head  vehemently. 


Nancy's  Country  Christmas  17 

"No;  I'd  rather  not  play  that." 

"But  what  would  you  have  done  this 
morning?" 

He  hesitated,  and  eyed  her  dubiously,  as  if 
questioning  her  capacity  for  sympathy. 

"Well — I  think, — may  be  Nell's  changed; 
but  if  she  hasn't,  I've  an  idea  we'd  go  all  over 
the  old  house  and  stay  for  a  while  in  the  school 
room  and  nursery.  Great  Scott !  what  merry 
war  we  did  raise  up  there !  And  we'd  explore 
the  attic,  too.  Nell  adored  the  attic." 

Nancy's  dimples  deepened.  Her  face  was 
eager. 

"I  suppose  it  wouldn't  be  proper,"  she 
said,  regretfully. 

"Nonsense!     Wilson!" 

Mrs.  Wilson  came  in  from  the  dining-room, 
smiling  like  a  fat  and  benign  fairy  godmother. 

"I'm  going  to  show  Miss  Reynolds  the  house. 
She  likes  old  mahogany.  Will  you  let  me 
have  the  keys?" 

She  handed  him  a  jangling  bunch.  "  You'll 
find  everything  in  order,  sir,"  she  said  proudly. 

They  did. 

When  Wilson  made  an  excursion  to  the 
school-room  at  twelve  o'clock,  she  stood  in  the 
doorway  and  smiled  with  every  crease  in  her 
fat  face. 


i8  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

The  open  fire  had  been  lighted  and  was 
burning  famously.  Old  school-books,  port 
folios  and  child  rubbish  strewed  the  room. 

Flat  on  the  floor  before  the  fire  sat  Nancy, 
toasting  a  plump  marshmallow  and  burning 
her  face  to  fiery  crimson.  Beside  her  was 
six-feet-two  of  boy,  absorbed  in  spinning  a 
somewhat  decrepit  top,  and  talking  eagerly. 

Wilson  didn't  listen,  but  she  caught  some 
thing  about  "  a  jolly  good  licking  for  it,  but  it 
was  a  bully  swim." 

"  Well,  would  you  look  at  them  Christmas 
babies?"  she  said,  chuckling  to  herself,  as  she 
hurried  down  stairs.  A  little  later,  she  reap 
peared  at  the  school-room  door,  bearing  a  tray. 
On  it  was  a  plate  piled  with  thin  bread  and 
butter  and  a  pot  of  strawberry  jam. 

"If  you  please,  sir,  it's  time  for  school 
room  lunch,"  she  said. 

The  culprits  started,  blushed,  and  gave  way 
to  shamfaced  mirth. 

The    housekeeper    beamed    approval. 

"Indeed,  it's  like  old  times,  sir,  and  I'm 
that  glad  to  see  it." 

She  left  them  sitting  side  by  side  on  the 
floor,  gravely  consuming  bread  and  butter 
and  strawberry  jam. 

When  the  old  clock  upon  the  stairs  struck 


Nancy's  Country  Christmas  19 

one,  they  still  sat  there,  although  the  bread 
and  butter  and  jam  had  disappeared. 

The  boy  gave  the  burning  logs  a  final  poke. 

"Come — we  haven't  seen  the  attic,  and 
dinner  will  be  at  two  to-day.  Beastly  business, 
this  tucking  a  stodging  meal  into  the  middle 
of  a  holiday." 

Nancy  scrambled  to  her  feet. 

"Twelve  slices  of  bread  and  butter  and 
jam  are  calculated  to  promote  prejudice  against 
it!  Where's  the  attic?" 

Together  they  climbed  the  steep  stairs,  and 
stood  in  a  huge,  low-ceilinged  garret,  whose 
unpainted  walls  and  rafters,  mellowed  by  time, 
were  turned  into  a  golden-brown  by  the  sun 
light,  filtering  through  dormer  windows  and 
dancing  dust  motes. 

With  a  sigh  of  profound  content,  Nancy  sat 
down  upon  a  horse-hair  trunk. 

"I've  dreamed  of  an  attic  like  this,  all  my 
life,"  she  said  ecstatically. 

"  I  never  knew  there  were  so  many  boxes 
and  trunks  in  the  world.  Didn't  your  ancestors 
ever  throw  away  anything?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head.  "They  were 
thrifty  souls — but  the  savages  escaped  a  lot, 
didn't  they?  All  this  truck  might  have  gone 
into  missionary  boxes,  and  then  there'd  have 


20  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

been  a  first-class  attic  spoiled  to  breed  vanity 
in  the  natives  of  Booriboola  Gha.  Everything 
our  family  ever  discarded  or  outwore  is  here— 
except  the  trousers  of  my  early  youth.  After 
I'd  worn  them  for  a  brief  season  of  sporting- 
life,  there  wasn't  enough  of  them  left  for  heir 
looms.  My  baby-clothes  are  in  the  piebald 
trunk  in  the  corner,  though." 

He  turned  a  key,  lifted  a  lid,  and  held  up, 
fitted  on  his  thumb  and  forefinger,  a  diminutive 
lace  baby-cap. 

"Seems  absurdly  inadequate,  doesn't  it? 
They  say  it  was  distinctly  becoming  in  its  day. 
Wilson  comes  up  and  weeps  over  this  trunk 
at  frequent  intervals.  She  tells  me  I  was  a 
very  superior  variety  of  baby. 

"Do  you  like  old-fashioned  finery?  My 
great-great-grandmother's  wedding-clothes  are 
in  that  trunk  you're  sitting  on.  Grandfather's, 
too.  Great  swells,  the  dear  old  souls  were,  in 
their  day." 

"Show  me,"  begged  Nancy. 

The  Boy  struggled  with  a  rusty  lock,  and 
finally  opened  the  brass-bound  trunk,  from 
which  a  whiff  of  jasmine  escaped  as  though 
glad  of  freedom. 

"They  say  the  little  old  lady  always  had  a 
faint  odour  of  jasmine  clinging  about  her. 


Nancy's  Country  Christmas  ai 

She  lived  to  be  seventy-two,  but  she  was  a 
coquette  and  a  belle  to  the  end  of  her  days." 

Nancy  was  on  her  knees  beside  him,  her  eyes 
shining  with  interest,  but  suspiciously  misty. 

"The  Dear!"  she  murmured  to  herself. 
"The  Dear- 

And  the  Boy,  being  a  Man  Body,  and  not 
compact  of  sentiment  nor  quick  of  fancy, 
wondered  vaguely  at  the  tender  little  voice 
thrill  that  paid  tribute  across  the  years  to  the 
youth  and  daintiness,  the  beauty,  and  coquetry, 
and  romance  of  the  bride  long  dead. 

It  was  Nancy  who  lifted  out  the  quaint,  old 
gown  of  white  brocade,  and  shook  out  the 
gleaming  folds.  Little  white  slippers,  with 
extravagantly  high  heels,  and  huge  paste 
buckles,  white  open-work  stockings,  a  lace 
scarf,  a  fan,  some  girlish  trinkets,  a  bundle  of 
ribbon-tied  letters,  and  several  daguerreotypes 
were  with  the  wedding-gown. 

"It's  too  perfect,"  sighed  Nancy.  "I  didn't 
suppose  such  stage  properties  ever  did  really 
exist." 

"  Grandad  did  a  little  in  the  line  of  glad  rags 
himself,"  said  the  irreverent  Boy,  holding  up 
a  gorgeous  embroidered  waistcoat. 

"  Nell  and  I  used  to  dress  up  in  these  things. 
They'd  fit  us  better  now  than  they  did  then. 


22  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

I'm  just  about  the  old  gentleman's  size,  and, 
they  say,  I  look  like  him." 

He  stopped  suddenly. 

Nancy  was  looking  at  him  with  suppressed 
question  and  entreaty  in  every  line  of  her 
vivid  face.  He  made  a  wild  effort  to  read  the 
unspoken  wish. 

"  You  and  your  sister  will  have  to  masquerade 
again  when  she  comes,"  the  young  woman  said, 
patting  the  high-heeled  slippers  wistfully. 

A  light  broke  in  upon  the  Boy's  fumbling 
brain. 

"Would  you — would  you  like — Oh,  I  say, 
would  you  like  to  do  it?"  he  stammered  hope 
fully. 

"I'd  adore  it!" 

She  hugged  the  wedding-gown  in  her  en 
thusiasm,  then  gathered  up  the  rest  of  the 
treasure  trove  and  turned  toward  the  stair,  but 
at  the  top  she  hesitated. 

"  You  don't  think  they'd  mind  ?  Perhaps  it 
isn't  fair.  Do  you  think  they'd  hate  to  have 
anybody  else  wear — 

"They'd  be  glad,"  interrupted  the  Boy,  with 
conviction.  Then,  as  he  looked  at  the  lovely 
flushed  face,  he  added:  "They'd  be  proud!" 
Half  an  hour  later,  a  handsome  young  buck,  in 
the  most  elaborate  of  Colonial  costumes,  stood 


Nancy's  Country  Christmas  23 

beside  the  big  fireplace  in  the  hall,  smiling 
whimsically  down  at  his  strapping  figure  in  its 
dandified  attire,  and  settling  his  lace  ruffles 
with  the  air  of  a  Beau  Brummel. 

Wilson  had  been  called  into  consultation 
by  Nancy,  and  silence  reigned  upstairs. 

Suddenly  there  was  borne  to  the  ears  of  the 
waiting  gallant  the  click  of  tiny  heels,  the 
swish  of  silken  skirts. 

Down  the  broad  stairway  came  a  dream  of 
olden-times — a  bewitching,  coquettish  figure  in 
a  white  brocade  gown,  whose  billowing 
fulness  could  not  disguise  the  girl's  slender 
grace.  Yellow  old  lace  fell  away  softly  from 
white  dimpled  arms  and  shoulders ;  and  above 
smiled  a  gay,  charming  face,  framed  in  sunny 
chestnut  hair,  whose  waving  masses  were 
drawn  high  on  the  head  and  fastened  by  a 
jewelled  comb. 

The  vision  paused  on  the  landing,  and  looked 
down  at  the  Big  Boy,  who  had  left  the  hearth 
rug  and  stood  waiting  at  the  bottom  of  the 
stairs. 

There  was  a  brave  light  in  his  eyes,  and  his 
heart  was  beating  tumultuously  under  the  gay- 
embroidered  waistcoat. 

"You  are  be-au-ti-ful ! "  said  the  vision 
fervently. 


24  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

He  held  out  his  hands  to  her. 

"You  are —  His  voice  stuck  in  his 

throat,  but  his  eyes  were  eloquent.  "Lucky 
Grandad,"  he  murmured  under  his  breath;  and 
Nancy  blushed  as  the  handsome  gallant,  in 
bridal  finery,  led  her,  in  courtly  fashion,  to  the 
dining-room,  where  Wilson  beamed  approval 
of  the  little  comedy. 

Christmas  dinner  was  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,  and  it  went  off  merrily. 

With  the  plum-pudding,  conversation  veered 
to  personalities. 

"Have  I  made  a  good  substitute?"  Nancy 
asked,  demurely.  "Am  I  a  decent  small 
sister,  as  sisters  go?" 

"  Ripping  ! "  said  the  big  boy,  with  emphasis. 
"  I  wish — no,  by  Jove,  I  don't.  Are  you  sure 
you  haven't  been  bored?" 

"Positive.  I've  been  a  sister  to  a  great 
many  big  boys,  but  I've  never  had  such  a 
good  time  doing  it." 

He  eyed  her  doubtfully. 

"Still— I  don't  know,"  he  began.  There 
was  a  pause.  "  I  rather  wish  I  hadn't  spent 
the  time  telling  you  about  the  swimming-hole 
and  the  bulldog  and  the  governess.  I  didn't 
realise — I'm  afraid  I'll  be  sorrier  later.  You 
see,  you  are  going  so  soon,  and  there's  so  little 


Nancy's  Country  Christmas  25 

time,  and  such  a  lot  to  say.  The  governess 
doesn't  seem  one  of  the  important  things. 
My  sense  of  proportion  wasn't  in  working 
order  this  morning.  Now,  this  afternoon, 
we'll " 

The  maid  retreated  to  the  butler's  pantry. 
She  may  have  been  moved  by  the  necessity  of 
procuring  cracked  ice.  She  may  have  been 
prompted  by  discretion.  But  she  came  back 
immediately. 

"If  you  please,  sir,  Watson's  just  been  to 
station,  and  he  says  the  road's  clear  earlier  than 
was  expected.  The  up  train'll  be  along  in  about 
an  hour,  sir,  and  the  drifts  is  so  bad  it  '11  take 
some  time  to  get  to  the  station." 

Having  thrown  the  bomb,  she  fled. 

The  big  boy  was  a  Man-Body  again.  He 
was  sitting  up  very  straight,  and  looking  at 
Nancy  with  a  hurt  in  his  eyes. 

"I — knew — I'd — be — sorry,"  he  said,  slowly. 

Nancy  smiled  at  him. 

"But  it  was  a  beautiful  game, — and  you 
haven't  been  dreadfully  lonely  without  youi 
sister,  have  you?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  so  very  glad,"  she  said,  softly.  "Of 
course,  it  wasn't  my  fault  she  disappointed 
you,  but  I  couldn't  help  feeling  guilty  because 


26  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

I  came  instead  of  her.  And  I've  tried  so  hard 
to  do  just  what  she  would  have  done." 

There  was  a  little  break  in  her  voice.  It 
sounded  like  sentiment.  Bobby  would  have 
sworn  it  was  amusement. 

The  Man-Body  sat  silent. 

The  atmosphere  was  a  trifle  oppressive. 

"I  must  hurry,  I  suppose,"  Nancy  said, 
rising.  He  rose,  too,  and  stood  looking  down 
at  her. 

"You'll  be  in  town  this  winter?"  she  asked. 
"You  must  let  us  show  you  that  we,  too,  can 
be  hospitable.  My  father  will  want  to  thank 
you." 

Still  he  said  nothing. 

"  I  should  be  so  gla4  to  meet  the  sister  to 
whom  I've  been  understudy." 

At  last  he  made  a  remark,  but  it  sounded 
exceedingly  irrelevant. 

"And  I  didn't  appreciate  it  when  I  did  it," 
he  said,  wonderingly. 

For  some  reason  or  other  Nancy  blushed. 

The  distance  from  the  Monroe  house  to  the 
station  is  much  shorter  than  the  distance  from 
the  station  to  the  Monroe  house.  Nancy 
noted  this  fact  as  interesting  to  a  statistician. 
Yet  the  train  came  puffing  in  as  the  brougham 
drew  up  beside  the  platform. 


Nancy's  Country  Christmas  27 

The  Man-Body  put  his  guest  into  a  seat  and 
had  another  attack  of  explosive  silence. 

"  You've  been  awfully  good,"  she  said.  "  I'll 
never  forget  it.  No  one  could  have  made  an 
awkward  situation  less  awkward  or  more 
delightful." 

She  introduced  a  period,  but  he  didn't  take 
advantage  of  it.  He  only  looked  at  her  help 
lessly.  Outside,  somewhere,  the  conductor 
was  calling  "  All  aboard  ! " 

"A  big  brother  is  the  nicest  Christmas 
present  I've  ever  had,"  Nancy  went  on,  very 
gently.  "I've  never  had  a  real  one.  It  was 
a  nice  game.  I'd  like  to  play  sister  to  you 
'  for  keeps.'  ' 

"  God  forbid  ! "  the  Man-Body  said  fervently 
— and  swung  himself  off  the  moving  train. 


IN  OKLAHOMA 


IN    OKLAHOMA 

THERE  are  several  ways  of  seeing  Okla 
homa.  There  is  only  one  way  of 
knowing  the  Territory. 

The  Congressman  and  the  red-haired  girl 
proved  that. 

They  travelled  from  New  York  to  Bluffville 
on  the  same  car.  He  was  looking  for  wheat 
statistics.  She  was  in  search  of  new  expe 
riences,  and  incidentally  of  a  brother  who  had 
started  a  lumber-yard  in  Bluffville. 

Both  travellers  saw  Oklahoma  after  a 
fashion,  but  only  the  red-haired  girl  learned  to 
know  it.  That  was  because  the  Congressman, 
with  masculine  logic,  contended  that  the  way 
to  see  a  country  was  to  travel  about  it,  while 
the  girl,  with  feminine  intuition,  divined  that 
the  real  way  to  accomplish  the  end  was  to 
sit  on  a  lumber-pile  and  look  at  the  country 
through  the  eyes  and  the  words  of  the  men  who 
made  it. 

There  were  a  few  Eastern  women  in  Bluff 
ville,  but  they  were  married,  and  several  years 
in  the  Territory  had  rubbed  off  the  old  hall- 
Si 


32  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

mark;  so  Wilson's  sister  made  rather  a  sen 
sation. 

Billings,  the  saloon-keeper,   saw  her  first. 

"Say,  boys,"  he  announced.  "There's  a 
red-headed  girl  sitting  on  a  pile  of  two-by- 
fours  up  in  Wilson's  lumber-yard,  and  she's  a 
peach." 

The  boys  were  doubters.  They  strolled, 
singly  and  collectively,  past  the  lumber-yard, 
and  Billings's  reputation  for  veracity  soared 
above  par. 

Dawson  wasn't  contented  with  walking  by 
the  yard.  He  lighted  a  large  cigar,  by  way  of 
steadying  his  nerves,  pulled  his  hat  further 
over  his  eyes,  and  turned  into  Wilson's  office. 
Half  an  hour  later  he  was  back  in  the  saloon. 

"She's  his  sister,  Miss  Betty  Wilson,  from 
New  York,  and  she's  the  real  thing,"  he  said, 
with  a  deep  conviction. 

Meanwhile,  the  girl  on  the  lumber-pile  was 
feeling  vaguely  disappointed.  She  looked  off 
across  the  plain,  whose  monotonous  level  was 
broken  only  by  occasional  farm  buildings,  and 
she  wondered  how  one  could  live  in  a  treeless 
country  and  not  go  mad. 

Then  she  turned  and  looked  down  the  wide, 
dusty  main  street  of  the  town.  It  was  flanked 
by  rows  of  one-story  wooden  buildings,  and 


In  Oklahoma 


33 


ended  in  an  open  square  surrounding  a  squat 
brick  court-house,  at  whose  door  two  sickly 
poplars  stood  guard,  like  exiled  and  home 
sick  grenadiers.  From  the  main  street  the 
town  wandered  off  in  forlorn  little  shacks  and 
tiny,  neat,  cottages,  dotted  indiscriminately 
along  broad,  dirty  roads,  that  bore  sounding 
titles. 

It  was  all  ugly — drearily  ugly.  The  girl  had 
lunched  with  one  of  her  brother's  married 
friends,  and  eaten  chicken  croquettes  and  salted 
almonds  and  other  Philistine  fare,  in  a  tiny  square 
house  whose  good  rugs  and  books  and  pictures 
and  china  seemed  as  much  out  of  place  as  a  faun 
in  a  button-factory.  Betty  wasn't  old  enough  to 
see  the  dramatic  interest  of  the  surf -line,  where 
east  broke  against  west,  and  she  went  away 
from  that  luncheon  exceedingly  sorrowful. 
Salted  almonds  and  embroidered  doilies,  and 
not  a  cowboy  or  an  Indian  within  sight.  Was 
this  what  she  had  gone  out  into  the  wilderness 
to  see  ? 

The  street  in  front  of  the  lumber-yard's  office 
was  lined  with  wagons  and  cow-ponies,  and 
crowds  of  roughly  clad  men  thronged  the 
wooden  sidewalks.  On  the  opposite  corner  a 
number  of  horse-traders  were  gathered  round 
a  bunch  of  broncos,  and  teamsters  had  halted 


34  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

their  loaded  wagons  to  talk  with  the  swaggering, 
loud-voiced  group. 

Suddenly  something  happened,  and  the  red- 
haired  girl  sat  up.  A  long,  lean  man,  in  riding 
clothes  and  sombrero,  stood  facing  three  burly, 
thick-set  traders. 

"You'll  swallow  that  or  an  ounce  of  lead," 
roared  one  of  the  trio,  drawing  a  revolver. 

The  crowd  surged  back  out  of  range. 

"You're  a  d—  horse-thief,  and  I  can 
prove  it,"  said  the  man  in  front  of  the  shining 
steel  barrel.  He  moved  quickly,  as  he  spoke, 
and  a  bullet  buried  itself  in  the  buildings 
behind  him. 

The  three  men  lunged  toward  him,  and  he 
backed  up  against  a  wagon  full  of  cord-wood. 
Something  flashed  in  his  hand.  There  was  a 
second  shot,  then  another,  and  another.  Two 
men  lay  in  the  street.  The  cowboy  stood  un 
hurt,  save  for  a  red  streak  broadening  on  his 
cheek. 

The  third  horse-trader  brought  his  heavy 
whip-butt  down  viciously  upon  the  cowboy's 
right  wrist  and  the  revolver  spun  across  the 
road,  but  the  disarmed  man  reached  for  a 
stick  of  wood  with  his  left  hand,  and  the  last 
of  his  assailants  went  down  in  a  crumpled  heap. 

The  crowd  closed  in.     When  it  opened  out, 


In  Oklahoma  35 

two  men  were  being  loaded  into  an  empty 
wagon.  One  supported  by  friends,  was  limping 
toward  the  drugstore,  and  the  cowboy,  followed 
by  an  admiring  throng,  was  slouching  carelessly 
into  the  nearest  saloon. 

A  loose-jointed,  keen-eyed  man  dropped 
down  upon  the  lumber-pile  beside  the  red- 
haired  girl. 

"Pretty  scrap,  wasn't  it?"  he  drawled,  as 
he  lighted  his  pipe.  The  girl  recognised  the 
sheriff,  to  whom  she  had  been  introduced, 
with  due  ceremony,  earlier  in  the  day. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  arrest  anybody?"  she 
inquired  breathlessly. 

"What'd  I  do  that  for?"  asked  the  Majesty 
of  the  Law,  in  mild  surprise. 

"Do  you  allow  fights  like  that  on  your  town 
streets?" 

He  shifted  his  pipe,  and  expectorated  cheer 
fully.  "  Why,  Jim  licked,  didn't  he  ? " 

"The  cowboy  did." 

"That's  Jim — and  they  were  three  to  one 
agin  him,  weren't  they?" 

"Why,  yes;  but " 

"Well,  if  they  couldn't  take  care  of  them 
selves,  they  needed  killing,  and  Jim  don't  seem 
to  need  me  to  take  care  of  him.  Nobody's 
badly  hurt,  anyhow,  and  I  can't  see  as  I've  a 


36  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

call  to  jug  anybody  for  that  row.  It  kind  of 
settled  itself." 

When  the  red -haired  girl  went  to  bed  that 
night  she  was  distinctly  cheerful.  After  all, 
things  did  happen  in  Oklahoma. 

All  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  floated  in 
and  out  of  Wilson's  lumber-yard.  Some  of 
them  wanted  lumber.  Some  liked  Dick  Wilson, 
and  showed  it  by  loafing  in  his  office.  After 
Dick's  sister  arrived,  they  came  thicker  and 
faster  than  ever. 

She  chummed  with  them  all,  and  held 
court  on  a  pile  of  joists  which  made  a  good 
place  from  which  to  watch  the  street.  Every 
man  within  a  radius  of  seventy-five  miles 
around  Bluffville  took  his  turn  at  entertain 
ing  her,  but  the  men  who  most  persistently 
acted  as  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend  were 
the  philosophical  sheriff  and  Tom  Bailey,  gam 
bler,  dead-shot,  and  Harvard  graduate.  Some 
brothers  would  have  shied  at  Tom.  Dick 
Wilson  only  grinned. 

"He'll  spoil  your  taste  for  Willy  boys, 
Betty,"  he  said;  "but  he'll  not  hurt  you,  and 
he  knows  the  Territory.  Don't  hurt  him." 

So  the  couple  sat  together  under  the  shade 
of  the  lumber-shed  very  often,  and  the  gambler 
told  the  red-haired  girl  about  the  people  who 


In  Oklahoma  37 

passed,  and  about  a  good  many  people  who 
didn't  pass. 

"That's  Slim  Jim,"  he  said  one  day,  as  he 
and  Betty  looked  down  the  street  from  their 
vantage  point  on  the  lumber-pile.  "Did  you 
ever  meet  him  ? ' ' 

"No,  but  I've  seen  him  fight." 

"That's  good.  He's  a  dabster  at  it,  isn't 
he?  But  eating  is  his  long  suit.  He  can  eat 
more  than  any  man  in  the  Strip,  and  there 
isn't  a  boarding-house  keeper  who  will  board 
him  at  regular  rates;  but  he  can't  get  an  extra 
ounce  of  flesh  on  those  bones. 

"  He's  an  old  Texas  man.  He  says  he  can 
go  broke  anywhere  with  perfect  impunity.  All 
he  needs  to  do  is  to  tell  the  first  man  he  meets 
a  hard-luck  story,  and  pump  up  a  cough. 
They  put  him  up  at  a  hotel  and  take  up  a 
collection  for  him." 

Just  at  this  point  in  the  conversation  the 
sheriff  hove  in  sight,  and  came  across  the  yard 
with  his  lazy,  side-wheeler  motion. 

"Now,  wouldn't  you  think  that  man  was 
slower  than  molasses  in  winter?"  asked  the 
gambler  musingly.  "He's  made  out  of  steel 
wire  and  raw-hide.  He's  quicker  on  the 
trigger  than  any  man  in  the  country.  He  has 
a  mind  that  works  like  chain-lightning,  and  an 


38  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

iron  nerve,  and  eyes  in  the  back  of  his  head,  but 
just  look  at  him." 

The  sheriff  dropped  in  a  disjointed  heap  upon 
a  friendly  joist. 

"  I  was  telling  Miss  Wilson  about  Slim  Jim," 
volunteered  the  gambler. 

"Oh! — well,  it's  a  long  story.  He's  a  char 
acter,  Slim  Jim  is.  Don't  you  get  stuck  on  him, 
though,  Miss  Wilson.  He's  tarnation  shapely 
but  he's  married.  Did  Tom  tell  you  about 
his  marrying?  No?  Well,  that  was  the  only 
time  anybody  got  the  drop  on  Jim. 

"You  see,  it  happened  just  a  little  while 
after  the  run  for  the  Strip,  and  Jim's  never 
been  sorry  but  once.  That's  all  the  time. 
She  was  a  Yankee,  and  came  down  to  visit  her 
sister.  There  wasn't  another  pretty  girl  within 
miles,  and  the  boys  went  clean  daft  about  her. 
There  were  picket  lines  of  cow-ponies  hitched 
to  her  brother-in-law's  fence  all  day  and  every 
day. 

"The  girl  picked  out  two  young  fellows  who 
had  good  claims,  side  by  side.  They  were 
both  sooners." 

"What's  a  sooner?"  asked  the  red-haired 
girl. 

"  Chap  who  gets  in  and  stakes  his  claim  before 
the  Government  signal  is  given.  He  has  no 


In  Oklahoma 


39 


legal  right  to  his  claim,  and  any  one  who  can 
prove  him  a  sooner  can  turn  him  out  and  stake 
his  claim.  Well,  for  a  while  this  girl  couldn't 
decide  which  of  the  two  fellows  she  liked  the 
better;  but,  finally,  she  made  up  her  mind. 
Both  of  the  duffers  had  told  her  their  sooner 
stories.  She  got  the  one  she  didn't  want  to 
marry  to  tell  his  story  before  witnesses.  Then 
she  disproved  his  title,  staked  his  claim,  and 
married  the  man  next  door.  That  was  Jim. 
They've  got  a  nice  half -section,  but  Jim  says 
that  sometimes  he  feels  as  sick  as  he  looks,  and 
that  he  wouldn't  advise  any  man  to  marry  a 
business  woman.  If  he  were  a  woman  he'd  get 
a  divorce,  but  a  man  can't  very  well  do  that, 
even  in  Oklahoma." 

The  girl  looked  thoughtful. 

" Divorces  are  easy  down  here,  aren't  they?" 
she  asked.  "  I  lunched  with  the  banker's 
wife,  the  other  day,  and  she  said  something 
about  the  time  when  she  and  John  were 
divorced.  She  didn't  seem  sensitive  about  the 
thing,  but  I  didn't  like  to  ask  questions." 

The  gambler  and  the  sheriff  both  chuckled. 

"Why,  bless  your  heart,  she  wouldn't  have 
cared,"  said  the  sheriff.  "She  and  her  sister 
both  got  divorces,  just  before  the  run.  You 
see,  a  man  and  his  wife  can  stake  only  one 


40  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

claim.  That's  a  quarter-section.  Now,  those 
two  couples  wanted  two  half -sections.  So  they 
got  divorced,  made  the  run,  staked  four  claims; 
and  after  the  claims  were  proved,  they  married 
again.  Each  family  had  a  half -section.  See  ? " 

The  red-haired  girl  gasped.  There  was  a 
direct  simplicity  about  Oklahoma  methods  that 
startled  her. 

"Did  many  women  run?"  she  asked  weakly. 

"Droves  of  them." 

"Tell  me  about  a  run.     What's  it  like?" 

The  sheriff  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

"What's  it  like,  Tom?  You  tell  her,"  he 
said,  turning  to  the  other  man. 

The  gambler  crossed  his  knees  and  clasped 
them  with  his  white,  scholarly  hands,  that  gave 
the  lie  to  his  rough  clothes  and  hard  face. 

"Like?"  he  said  reflectively.  "It's  like  a 
lunatic  asylum  on  a  spree.  It's  like  a  circus 
chariot -race  and  a  steeple-chase  and  a  county 
fair  rolled  into  one.  It's  like  Judgment  Day, 
with  very  few  sheep  in  the  deal.  You  get  all 
sorts  at  a  run,  but  three-fourths  of  them  are  has- 
beens.  There  are  men  from  all  quarters  of  the 
earth,  but  they've  nearly  all  failed  somewhere 
else  and  are  playing  for  new  stakes.  Then  there 
are  the  women  who  have  been  drudging  for 
some  one  else,  and  are  making  a  break  for 


In  Oklahoma  41 

homes  of  their  own.  Some  men  and  women 
are  going  into  the  thing  just  for  fun.  Oh,  they 
are  assorted  qualities  and  sizes,  all  right  enough  ! 
There  are  lots  of  fine  men  and  splendid  women 
in  the  gang,  but  I've  found  that  it's  a  good  rule 
not  to  go  into  ancient  history  with  Oklahoma 
neighbours.  Now,  I'm  long  on  ancient  history. 
My  ancestors  were  great  stuff,  and  I  lived  up  to 
them  for  awhile.  It  was  the  effort  of  doing  it 
that  brought  on  a  moral  collapse  and  put  me 
where  I  am." 

"Did  you  ever  run?"  asked  the  girl.  The 
gambler  flushed. 

"Well,  hardly.     I'm  a  good  shot." 

"But  you  can't  get  a  claim  by  shooting." 

Tom  laughed. 

"  Oh  !  You  mean  was  I  ever  in  a  run  ?  Yes ; 
I  ran  for  the  Strip.  I  didn't  want  the  land. 
What  would  I  do  with  it,  if  I  had  it?  But  I 
wanted  experience.  I  got  it.  That  run  was 
great.  Just  ahead  of  me,  when  we  broke  away, 
was  a  fat,  old  darkey  on  a  raw-boned  mule. 
She  had  on  a  red  calico  dress,  and  she  was 
riding  astride,  lamming  the  mule,  and  yelling 
like  a  calliope.  The  mule  ran  like  a  prairie  fire, 
and  was  still  going  when  I  dropped  out.  I 
didn't  run  far.  The  plunge  at  the  start  was 
what  I  wanted.  It  was  like  going  over  Niagara. 


42  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

It  was  the  greatest  mix-up  I  was  ever  in  in 
my  life,  and  that's  saying  a  good  deal.  I  don't 
know  how  my  pony  ever  kept  his  legs." 

"You  staked,  didn't  you?"  drawled  the 
sheriff. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  I  staked :  But  a  woman  staked  the 
same  quarter-section,  and  I  didn't  care  any 
thing  about  it,  so  I  wouldn't  contest.  The 
woman  was  a  dressmaker,  and  found  she  was 
losing  her  eyesight ;  so  she  decided  to  have  a  go 
at  the.  Strip.  We  rode  into  the  filing  station 
together,  and  I  held  her  place  in  line  for  her 
while  she  got  a  night's  sleep.  She  has  a  very 
decent  little  farm  now." 

"Were  all  the  men  as  nice  to  the  women  as 
you  were?"  The  red-haired  girl's  voice  was 
soft,  and  her  eyes  were  approving.  He  laughed. 

"Well,  no;  I  can't  say  that  the  Sir  Galahad 
act  was  popular.  Still,  the  men  did  try  not  to 
interfere  with  the  women  if  it  could  be  avoided." 

"There  were  the  Gateses,"  put  in  the  sheriff 
dryly. 

Both  men  looked  amused.  The  gambler 
took  out  a  fresh  cigar. 

"Tell  her  about  them,"  he  suggested,  as  he 
felt  for  a  match. 

"Never  met  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gates,  did  you?" 
inquired  the  sheriff. 


In  Oklahoma  43 

"No,  I  think  not,"  said  the  girl,  wrinkling 
her  forehead  in  an  effort  to  remember. 

"Well,  your  brother  knows  them.  That 
was  a  case  where  a  man  and  a  woman  contested 
a  claim,  and  no  politeness  about  it,  either. 

"They  both  made  the  run.  Mrs.  Gates  was 
Miss  Johnson  then,  a  crisp,  pugnacious  Yankee 
schoolmarm.  She  staked  her  claim.  Gates 
happened  to  stake  the  same  quarter-section. 
That  started  the  fight.  Now,  when  a  claim  is 
contested,  the  claimant  who  has  put  up  a 
shack  and  broken  ground  first  stands  the  best 
show;  so  as  soon  as  they  had  filed,  Gates  and 
Miss  Johnson  went  tearing  back  to  the  claim  to 
begin  operations.  She  took  a  workman  with 
her,  and  they  knocked  up  a  shack  at  the  south 
west  corner  of  the  claim.  Gates  ran  his  up  on 
the  northwest  corner.  He  had  to  pass  the  other 
shack  on  his  way  to  town. 

"  She  had  some  horses,  and  began  ploughing. 
So  did  Gates.  She  hated  him  like  poison.  He 
made  the  air  blue  every  time  he  thought  of  her. 
The  contest  dragged  along.  Those  things  last 
forever  down  here.  Every  day  the  two  parties 
got  more  bitter.  There  wasn't  anything  too 
bad  for  one  to  say  about  the  other.  When  she 
got  up  in  the  morning  she  looked  at  the  smoke 
coming  out  of  his  chimney,  and  talked  to  her- 


44  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

self  in  a  way  that  would  have  made  her  Yankee 
ancestors  shiver.  While  he  ate  breakfast  he 
looked  across  at  her  shack  and  said  things  that 
weren't  fit  for  publication.  Hating  each  other 
was  their  chief  occupation.  Between  times 
they  ploughed. 

"One  morning  Miss  Johnson  got  up  and 
looked  over  at  her  enemy's  shack.  There 
wasn't  any  smoke.  The  next  morning  the 
same  thing  happened.  She  knew  Gates  hadn't 
gone  away,  because  if  he  had  he'd  have  passed 
her  place.  The  third  morning  came.  No 
smoke.  Miss  Johnson's  curiosity  fairly  sizzled. 
It  was  too  much  for  her.  She  put  on  her  boots 
and  went  across  to  the  enemy's  camp.  There 
wasn't  any  noise  about  the  place.  She  stopped 
at  the  door  and  listened.  Not  a  sound.  She 
tried  the  door-knob.  It  turned,  and  the  door 
opened.  She  pushed  the  door  and  looked  in. 
There  was  only  one  room  to  the  shack.  On 
the  side  of  the  room,  opposite  the  door,  was  a 
cot.  On  the  cot  was  a  man.  He  was  tossing 
and  turning.  His  cheeks  were  crimson.  His 
eyes  had  a  sort  of  vacant  stare. 

"Miss  Johnson  stood  holding  the  door  and 
watched  the  man.  He  didn't  pay  any  attention 
to  her.  By  and  by  she  went  into  the  room, 
walked  over  to  him,  and  felt  his  head.  He  was 


In  Oklahoma  45 

burning  up  with  fever,  and  didn't  notice  her  at 
all.  She  looked  around  the  room.  Everything 
was  in  an  awful  mess. 

"She  stood  and  bit  her  lip  for  a  minute. 
That's  a  way  she  has.  Then  she  came  to  a 
conclusion  and  trotted  over  to  her  shack. 
Pretty  soon  she  hurried  back  with  a  medicine 
chest,  gave  the  sick  man  some  medicine,  rolled 
up  her  sleeves,  and  waded  into  that  room. 
When  it  was  tidy  she  put  wet  cloths  on  Gates 's 
head,  and  gave  him  some  more  medicine. 
Night  came  along,  and  she  rolled  herself  in  a 
blanket  and  slept  on  the  floor.  The  next  day 
she  made  gruel  for  the  sick  man,  and  kept  on 
with  the  medicine.  She  kept  that  up  for  four 
days,  going  home  only  long  enough  to  tend  to 
the  horses  and  cow. 

"  On  the  fifth  day  Gates  opened  his  eyes  and 
saw  out  of  them.  She  was  standing  by  him, 
and  when  he  saw  her  he  swore  feebly.  She  set 
her  lips. 

'You  shan't  die  on  my  land,'  she  said. 

"'It's  my  land,  and  I'll  die  on  it  if  I  d— 
please,'  snarled  Gates.     Then  he  fainted. 

"That  was  the  situation  for  two  weeks.  The 
woman  won  out.  A  man's  stubbornness  ain't 
any  match  for  a  woman's.  Miss  Johnson 
wouldn't  let  Gates  die  on  her  land.  He  tried 


46  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

to  assert  his  rights  and  do  it,  but  he  couldn't. 
She  nursed  him  back  to  life,  but  they  wouldn't 
speak  to  each  other.  When  he  was  getting 
well,  but  couldn't  do  anything  for  himself,  he 
used  to  watch  her  and  grin  sometimes.  Then 
he  would  scowl. 

"At  last  he  was  able  to  get  up.  She  went 
home.  That  afternoon  he  walked  in  at  her 
door. 

"I  reckon  you  won't  give  up  this  claim?' 
he  said. 

'"No.     Will  you?' 

"I'd  see  you  in first,  but  will  you  marry 

me?' 

"'It's  a  good  deal  the  same  thing  for  me, 
ain't  it?'  asked  Miss  Johnson. 

"Still,  she  married  him.  That's  the  way 
that  contest  was  quashed,  and  they're  as  happy 
as  turtle-doves." 

"  It's  a  funny  country,"  mused  the  red-haired 
girl. 

"It's  all  that,"  agreed  the  men. 

A  dilapidated  cart,  drawn  by  a  phantom 
horse,  wandered  down  the  street  and  stopped 
in  front  of  the  lumber  office.  In  it  were  a 
dignified  Indian,  in  gay  raiment,  a  shrinking, 
frightened-faced  squaw,  wrapped  in  a  blanket, 
and  a  scantily  clad  Indian  baby.  The  old 


In  Oklahoma  47 

Indian  climbed  out  of  the  wagon.  As  he  left, 
the  papoose  wailed  shrilly,  and  the  fond 
father  cuffed  it  over  the  head.  Then  he  dis 
appeared  into  the  office. 

"Old  Lone  Tree,"  explained  the  gambler. 
"He's  the  meanest  Indian  unhung.  He'll  lie 
and  steal  and  murder,  and  beat  his  wife,  and 
do  it  all  with  imperturbable  dignity.  He's  a 
Government  pet,  and  always  comes  out  on  top. 
You  can  shoot  a  white  man  down  here,  and  not 
hear  much  about  it;  but  wipe  one  of  those 
dirty,  vicious  Indians  off  the  earth,  and  you'll 
set  the  whole  machinery  of  the  Government 
working.  Don't  talk  to  me  about  the  noble 
red  man." 

"Slim  Jim  gave  Lone  Tree  that  scar  on  his 
cheek,"  the  sheriff  added. 

"The  tightest  hole  Jim  was  ever  in  was 
three  years  ago,  when  six  Indians  held  him 
up  fifteen  miles  out  on  the  Creek  road. 
Even  a  drunken  Injun  ought  to  have 
known  better.  Three  braves  were  gathered 
to  their  fathers,  and  three  more  were  laid 
up  for  weeks.  There  was  a  big  fuss  about  it, 
but  it  was  finally  decided  that  Jim  shot  in 
self-defense." 

The  office-door  opened.  Old  Lone  Tree 
stalked  into  the  yard  and  across  to  the  lumber- 


48  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

pile  where  the  red-haired  girl  sat.  He  looked 
her  over  calmly,  while  she  blushed. 

"How?"  he  grunted. 

The  two  men  nodded  coolly.  Lone  Tree  sat 
down  on  the  lumber  and  smoked  his  pipe, 
looking  superbly  reserved  and  dignified.  He 
was  spectacular,  but  a  barrier  to  conversation. 
The  Indians  in  Oklahoma  are  picturesque,  but 
not  inspiring.  They  shake  one's  faith  in 
Longfellow  and  Cooper.  They  are  dirty,  ill- 
smelling,  thieving,  brutal;  yet  with  it  all  they 
do,  at  times,  look  the  part. 

Lone  Tree  finished  his  pipe  in  silence.  Then 
he  made  another  exhaustive  survey  of  Wilson's 
sister,  and  nodded.  She  wasn't  sure  whether 
the  nod  expressed  approval,  but  she  offered  him 
a  smile  at  a  venture.  He  accepted  it  without 
any  sign  of  appreciation. 

"Day,"  he  grunted  solemnly,  and  went 
away. 

As  he  climbed  into  the  wagon  the  papoose 
once  more  gave  a  frightened  cry,  and  Lone 
Tree  struck  the  little  one  a  brutal  blow  with  his 
whip.  The  squaw  moaned  like  an  animal  in 
pain,  gathered  her  baby  in  her  arms,  and  sat 
huddled  in  the  bottom  of  the  wagon,  while  her 
lord  and  master,  statuesque,  serene,  drove 
away  into  the  sunset. 


In  Oklahoma  49 

"Some  day  I  shall  kill  an  Indian,"  said 
Tom  Bailey  quietly.  "I  feel  it  coming  on." 

The  red-haired  girl's  education  went  on  apace. 
She  lunched,  and  dined,  and  talked  Paris  and 
pre-Raphaslitism  with  charming  and  cultured 
folk;  she  played  euchre  and  wore  her  smart 
clothes,  and  flirted,  and  was  reared  quite  after 
the  fashion  of  New  York  or  Bar  Harbor,  but  the 
stage  setting,  at  least,  was  novel,  and  there 
was  a  fascination  for  her  in  the  more  primitive 
side  of  the  life  in  the  rapidly  disappearing 
Oklahoma  of  which  she  heard  tales  when  she 
sat  on  a  lumber-pile  with  Dick  and  Tom 
Bailey  and  the  sheriff. 

"Why  Bluff ville?"  she  asked  one  day. 
"There  aren't  any  bluffs." 

The  three  men  looked  lazily  at  each  other. 
Each  hoped  one  of  the  other  would  assume  the 
effort  of  explaining!  The  sheriff  finally  came 
to  the  front. 

"Didn't  you  ever  hear  how  the  town  came 
to  be  there?  We  called  the  railroad's  bluff. 
Some  of  the  sooners  staked  it  out  and  nabbed 
town  lots.  The  railroad  company  decided  to 
locate  its  town  nine  miles  east,  and  not  stop 
here.  Then  there  was  a  fight.  The  trains  had 
to  be  stopped  here,  and  the  boys  stopped  them. 
They  tore  up  track  and  broke  up  bridges.  The 


50  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

railroad  company  sent  a  posse  down  to  guard 
things.  Some  of  the  boys  engaged  the  posse 
up  at  the  north  bridge  while  the  rest  of  the 
boys  blew  up  the  south  bridge.  One  night 
they  moved  a  house,  and  set  it  squarely  on  the 
track.  The  engineer  of  the  express  train 
didn't  see  it  until  he  was  almost  on  it ;  so  he 
threw  his  throttle  wide  and  ploughed  right 
through  the  house.  The  engine  never  left  the 
track,  but  it  looked  more  or  less  like  thirty 
cents  afterward,  and  the  passengers  were 
scared. 

"  People  wouldn't  ride  on  the  trains,  and  the 
trainmen  wouldn't  run  them,  so  the  railroad 
company  had  to  give  in.  It  ought  to  have 
known  better  than  to  buck  up  against  a  crowd 
of  Oklahoma  boomers." 

"  How  long  ago  was  all  that  ? " 

"Five  years.  We  celebrated  the  town's 
fifth  birthday  last  summer,  spent  five  thousand 
dollars — everything  wide  open,  fireworks  till 
you  couldn't  rest,  circus,  balloon  ascension, 
show  at  the  Opera  House,  four  deaths  from 
pistol-shots,  scores  of  black  eyes,  drunks  in 
bunches  of  twenty-five.  It  was  a  great  oc 
casion.  Sorry  you  weren't  here." 

"Some  day  the  bottom  will  fall  out  of  this 
boom,"  prophesied  the  gambler. 


In  Oklahoma  51 

"That's  right,"  assented  Dick.  "We  draw 
from  seventy-five  miles  east  and  one  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  west  now,  but  a  railroad  will  cut 
in  somewhere,  and  we'll  go  out  like  a  candle. 
It's  a  great  town  now,  though." 

"Good  place  for  a  man  in  my  profession." 
The  gambler's  tone  had  a  touch  of  self -disgust 
in  it. 

"Why,  why,  wh The  red-haired  girl 

looked  embarrassed. 

"Why  do  I  follow  my  profession?"  finished 
the  gambler  cheerfully.  "Well,  why  not? 
I'm  on  the  square.  My  word's  my  bond,  and 
the  boys  know  it.  It's  all  a  gamble,  in  one 
way  or  another,  and  I'm  not  sure  but  what  the 
avowed  gambler  is  the  only  really  honest  man 
in  the  bunch." 

The  month's  visit  came  to  an  end  one  October 
day.  The  red-haired  girl  kissed  her  brother 
tearfully,  while  all  the  bystanders  turned  their 
backs  and  diligently  studied  the  landscape. 

Then  she  shook  hands  with  a  large  and 
varied  assortment  of  men,  among  them  Old 
Lone  Tree,  who  eyed  her  stolidly,  and  grunted 
"Day,"  but  who  had  ridden  twenty  miles  to 
make  the  eloquent  remark. 

Tom  Bailey  was  the  last  man  to  step  up. 
His  face  wore  the  expression  that  he  usually 


52  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

reserved  for  a  raise  on  a  pair  of  deuces.  A 
habit  of  bluffing  calmly  stands  a  man  in  good 
stead  on  some  occasions. 

"  You've  been  very  good,"  said  the  red-haired 
girl. 

"Yes,  I've  been  good.  I'll  probably  make 
up  for  it." 

Not  a  muscle  of  his  face  stirred,  but  that 
night  he  rode  his  pony  fifty  miles  for  no  ap 
parent  purpose. 

On  the  train  the  red-haired  girl  met  the 
Congressman. 

"It's  a  wonderful  country,"  he  said. 

"It  is,"  she  agreed. 

"Such  crops,"  mused  the  Congressman. 

"Such  men,"  sighed  the  girl.  She  finds 
New  York  slow. 


THE   LITTLE    GOD  AND  THE 
MACHINE 


THE  LITTLE  GOD  AND  THE  MACHINE 

THEN  it's  all  over?"  He  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  looking  very  big 
and  angry,  and  holding  a  diamond 
ring  awkwardly,  as  though  it  burned  his  strong 
fingers. 

The  girl's  slim  figure  stiffened.  The  dimpled 
chin  went  into  the  air  a  fraction  of  an  inch 
further.  Evidently  two  persons  were  angry, 
but  anger  doesn't  make  Prudence  awkward.  It 
only  flushes  her  cheeks,  brightens  her  eyes, 
tilts  her  chin  to  the  advantage  of  its  curves. 

"  I  shall  never  speak  to  you  again,  Mr. 
Wetherell,  and  I  forbid  you  to  speak  to  me." 

The  voice  was  icy.  The  glance  was  frozen 
stiff. 

It  was  absurd,  in  the  midst  of  an  emotional 
crisis,  to  be  wondering  whether  a  young 
woman's  sponsors  in  baptism  had  realised  they 
were  perpetrating  a  joke,  yet  an  unhappy 
young  man  found  himself  deciding,  dully,  that 
anything  more  imprudent  than  looking  as 
kissable  as  Prudence  Merrington  would  amount 

55 


56  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

to  a  misdemeanour.  His  anger  made  way 
before  the  rush  of  another  emotion. 

"But  I  love  you  so,"  he  pleaded  humbly. 
His  voice  was  husky,  choked.  There  was  an 
Irish-setter  look  in  his  eyes  that  might  have 
softened  a  heart  of  stone. 

"You  will  remember  that  I  have  forbidden 
you  to  speak  to  me,  under  any  circumstances," 
said  five-feet-four  of  unrelenting  scorn. 

"I  am  not  likely  to  forget  it;  when  I  speak 
to  you  again,  it  will  be  to  answer  a  question 
from  you." 

The  yellow  portiere  fell  behind  her.  The 
man  found  his  hat  and  the  front  door.  He 
swung  away  up  the  street,  with  boiling  wrath 
written  in  the  set  of  his  broad  shoulders,  in  every 
line  of  his  handsome  face.  For  a  few  moments 
he  walked  on,  blindly,  rapidly.  Then  he 
stopped,  hesitated,  and  turned  toward  home. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  was  spinning  along  a 
country  road  in  a  red  Panhard.  His  jaw  was 
still  set  stubbornly,  and  he  was  sending  the 
machine  along  at  a  reckless  pace.  What  if  he 
did  run  over  a  collection  of  the  natives ;  what  if 
enterprising  villagers  did  arrest  him  for  speeding 
a  devil -wagon ;  what  difference  could  anything 
make  now?  He  rather  hoped  he  would  be 
arrested.  In  that  event  he  would  have  a 


The  Little  God  and  the  Machine         57 

chance  to  fight  an  officer  of  the  law,  and  he 
only  hoped  the  myrmidon  would  be  big  and 
husky.  There  wouldn't  be  much  satisfaction 
in  thrashing  a  little  man,  even  if  it  should  mean 
being  sent  up  for  thirty  days. 

So  the  motor  tore  along  at  high  speed,  and  the 
sullen-faced  young  man  paid  no  attention  to 
the  unflattering  comment  of  the  folk  he  passed. 

There  was  a  certain  comfort  in  the  rapid 
motion.  In  earlier  days,  the  chauffeur  re 
flected  grimly,  a  rejected  swain  always  rode  a 
horse  into  a  lather.  On  the  whole,  it  was  better 
to  be  a  rejected  swain  in  an  age  of  automobiles. 
Horses  were  too  slow.  Still,  one  could  kill  a 
horse.  One  couldn't  kill  a  motor.  One  couldn't 
even  make  it  tired.  There  might  be  a  satis 
faction  in  killing  something — and  he  let  the 
machine  out  another  notch  with  a  vicious  jerk. 

The  sun  was  near  the  western  hills  before  he 
turned  toward  home,  and  he  had  a  long  ride 
before  him,  but  the  fresh  air  rushing  past  his 
hot  face  and  the  exhilaration  of  the  pace,  had 
already  told  upon  his  mood  and  cooled  his  anger 
slightly.  The  whole  thing  was  too  bad  to  be 
true;  and,  though  the  engagement  ring  was  in 
his  pocket,  it  wasn't  possible  that  things  should 
end  so.  Yet  she  had  been  in  earnest.  They 
had  quarrelled  often  before.  Who  wouldn't 


58  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

quarrel  with  Prudence  every  morning  for  the 
sake  of  making  up  every  afternoon,  and  having 
her  heavenly  kind  and  self-reproachful  every 
evening  ?  But  this  was  no  ordinary,  promotive 
quarrel.  This  was  the  real  thing.  She  was 
unjust — but  she  had  some  reason  on  her  side. 
He  certainly  had  been  more  or  less  of  a  brute- 
jealous  fool ! 

The  automobile  took  another  staccato  jump. 

Yes,  he  had  been  a  cad.  He  had  to  admit 
that — but  what  good  could  admitting  it  do? 
Hadn't  he  called  himself  every  uncomplimentary 
name  in  the  language?  Hadn't  he  apologised 
and  blamed  himself  and  promised  and  pleaded 
and  begged  for  mercy? — and  at  the  end  of  it 
all  she  had  forbidden  him  to  speak  to  her. 

Well,  she  should  be  obeyed.  Oh,  yes,  he'd 
obey  her  !  He  wouldn't  speak  to  her  unless  she 
asked  him  to  do  it — and  she  wouldn't  do  that. 
She  was  proud  as  Lucifer,  and  the  Merrington 
stubbornness  was  a  proverb. 

She  wouldn't  speak,  and  he  couldn't  speak, 
and  the  weeks  would  go  by  and  the  other 
fellows  would  be  making  love  to  her,  and  Billy 
Kennedy  would  be  getting  home  from  Europe, 
and  finally  she'd  stop  caring  anything  about 
him — for  she  had  cared.  He  knew  that.  She 
wasn't  the  kind  of  a  girl  to — well,  she  had 


The  Little  God  and  the  Machine         59 

shown  him  she  cared — and  as  memory  gripped 
him,  he  sent  his  machine  whirling  down  a  long 
hill  at  a  maniacal  rate. 

Before  him  a  second  hill  rose,  in  slow 
leisurely  fashion,  to  meet  the  horizon.  Pre 
sumably,  the  motor  was  satiated  with  hill- 
climbing.  It  eyed  the  long  slope  it  was 
charging,  decided  upon  open  revolt,  and  stopped 
abruptly,  with  an  explosive  '"chug";  then, 
with  a  gentle,  lingering  quiver,  it  settled  into 
stolid  immobility. 

The  chauffeur  followed  masculinity's  rules 
for  first  aid  to  the  injured  and  tried  "  langwidge  " 
upon  the  erring  one.  Under  the  choicest 
epithets  chosen  lovingly  from  a  rich  vocabulary, 
the  motor  remained  imperturbably  serene. 

Then  an  irate  young  man,  in  whom  fresh 
exasperation  had  supplanted  earlier  grievance, 
and  whose  emotions  had  changed  in  character 
if  not  in  force,  climbed  out  into  a  muddy  road, 
went  down  upon  his  knees  and  prodded,  rattled, 
screwed  the  internal  mechanism  of  his  iron 
steed.  After  ten  minutes  of  honest  toil,  he 
mounted  to  his  seat  again  and  turned  the  lever 
hopefully. 

An  abiding  and  reposeful  calm ! 

Dick  Wetherell's  lips  moved ;  but,  luckily  for 
the  morals  of  the  young  calf  who  watched  the 


60  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

struggle  across  the  hedge,  his  sentiments  were 
inaudible.  He  took  off  his  coat,  rolled  up  his 
sleeves  and  his  trousers,  and  went  to  work  once 
more.  For  the  moment,  a  broken  heart  was  of 
no  importance.  Broken  motor  machinery  held 
the  stage  centre — but  with  Dan  Cupid  as  stage 
manager  that  situation  couldn't  endure.  Before 
long,  the  heart  once  more  claimed  the  calcium 
light.  The  perspiring  mechanic  looked  up 
from  his  machine  and  pushed  his  cap  back  from 
his  brow.  His  eyes  were  turned  indifferently 
toward  the  hill  which  his  motor  had  refused  to 
climb,  and  a  gleam  of  interest  shot  into  them. 
Over  the  brow  of  the  hill  came  a  runabout, 
spinning  along  as  though  speed  laws  wrere  made 
for  slaves. 

Here,  perhaps,  was  the  good  Samaritan; 
but,  as  the  motor  came  nearer,  Dick  saw  that 
a  young  woman  was  running  it  in  solitary  state, 
and  he  kicked  his  machine  viciously,  in  sheer 
disgust.  What  could  a  fool  woman  know  about 
the  whims  and  vagaries  of  a  Panhard  ?  He 
stared  carelessly  at  the  on-coming  stranger. 
Suddenly  his  eyes  opened  wide.  He  stiffened 
perceptibly  and  reached  for  his  coat. 

It  couldn't  be — at  this  hour,  alone,  twelve 
miles  from  town  and  still  going.  Of  course  it 
was  quite  impossible — but  he  could  swear  to 


The  Little  God  and  the  Machine         61 

that  red  automobile -coat.  There  weren't  two 
girls  in  the  world  who  held  their  heads  like 
that.  It  must  be — it  was  ! 

"Good  Lord!"  groaned  the  afflicted  one. 
"  And  I've  got  to  stand  here  looking  like  an 
awkward,  muddy  ass  without  sense  enough  to 
run  an  auto,  while  she  goes  ripping  by  and  cuts 
me  dead." 

He  pulled  himself  together  and  turned  to  his 
machine ;  but,  out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye,  he  saw 
a  fair  chauffeuse  give  a  start  of  recognition, 
draw  herself  up  haughtily,  stare  straight  ahead, 
and  increase  the  speed  of  her  motor. 

On  she  came,  calm,  erect,  unseeing.  Dick 
braced  himself  for  the  moment  when  she  would 
whir  by,  within  reach  of  his  outstretched  hand, 
yet  the  world's  width  away  from  him. 

There  was  a  rattle,  a  bump,  a  smothered 
exclamation.  Opposite  the  Panhard,  in  the 
muddy  road,  stood  a  runabout,  immovable  as 
the  milestone  beside  its  wheels.  On  its  seat 
sat  a  chic  chauffeuse,  whose  cheeks  were 
flaming  red,  and  whose  lips  were  narrowed  into 
a  crimson  line  that  trembled  slightly.  Dick 
sprang  forward  involuntarily.  A  pair  of  brown 
eyes,  without  a  gleam  of  recognition  in  them, 
met  his  blue  ones.  He  hesitated,  remembered, 
and  went  back  to  his  work. 


62  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

The  owner  of  the  brown  eyes  was  outwardly 
serene,  but  inwardly  a  prey  to  volcanic  wrath, 
which  was  slowly  but  surely  giving  way  to 
weak-kneed  trepidation.  What,  in  the  name 
of  all  saints  who  look  after  maidens  in  distress, 
was  she  to  do  ? 

It  was  all  very  well  to  be  dignified  and 
serene  in  a  drawing-room.  There,  woman  was 
on  her  native  heath — but  in  a  stalled  automo 
bile,  on  a  country  road  !  Verily,  this  was  the 
hour  of  the  man  Creature.  Awkwardness  and 
superiority  had  shifted  places.  The  haughty 
young  woman  felt  distinctly  foolish.  What  was 
much  worse,  she  had  a  strong  conviction  that 
she  looked  it.  * 

Fate  had  played  her  a  scurvy  trick,  and  the 
situation  was  becoming  more  ridiculous  with 
every  moment. 

To  sit  helplessly  in  that  absurd  machine  and 
stare  blankly  at  vacancy  was  out  of  the  question. 
She  didn't  know  any  more  about  the  mechanism 
of  a  motor  than  she  did  about  differential 
calculus,  but  anything  was  better  than  inaction; 
so  she  clambered  out  into  the  mud,  gathered  up 
her  long  skirts,  and  peered  futilely  at  the 
batteries.  Then  she  walked  around  the  ma 
chine,  examining  it  with  what  she  fondly  hoped 
was  the  air  of  an  expert,  but  wishing  fervently 


The  Little  God  and  the  Machine         63 

the  while  that  looks  could  eternally  blast  and 
torture  dumb  wood  and  metal. 

She  poked  the  tires  viciously  and  examined 
the  lever  with  deep  solicitude.  The  house 
gown,  over  which  she  had  hastily  slipped  her 
cloak,  when  nerves  and  rage  drove  her  to 
motoring,  was  trailing  in  the  mud.  Her  thin- 
soled  shoes  were  soaked.  She  climbed  into 
her  seat  again  and  thought  long,  deep-blue 
thoughts. 

She  couldn't  walk  home.  Not  a  farm-house 
was  within  sight.  Probably  she  would  have 
to  start  out  and  find  one,  but  the  walking  was 
abominable,  and  the  sun  was  almost  down, 
and  she  was  deep  in  country  wilds. 

Here,  at  least,  she  was  safe,  so  long  as  the 
Person  beside  her  stayed  with  his  machine— 
and  at  that  thought  she  almost  made  up  her 
mind  to  walk.  It  was  intolerable  to  owe  even 
safety  to  an  odious  stranger. 

She  cast  a  furtive  glance  at  the  Odious  One. 
If  he  had  shown  the  smallest  sign  of  mirth,  she 
would  never  have  forgiven  him;  but  his  broad 
back  was  eloquent  only  of  stubborn  pride. 

It  was  a  very  broad  back.  She  had  never 
realised  that  Dick  was  so  big — and  strong. 
He  looked  quite  equal  to  anything — but  he 
couldn't  repair  his  automobile.  She  was  glad 


64  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

of  that.  It  would  be  unendurable  if  he  should 
suddenly  demonstrate  the  superiority  of  the 
eternal  masculine  by  bringing  his  machine  to 
terms  and  rolling  off  in  it. 

The  very  idea  sent  the  haughty  young 
woman  into  a  panic.  Oh,  he  wouldn't  be  brute 
enough  to  go  off  and  leave  her  there,  with  the 
dusk  coming  on.  Surely  he  wouldn't  do  that 
— nobody  could — but  she  had  been  so  very 
severe.  Perhaps  she  had  been  too  severe.  It 
looked  a  little  that  way  to  her  now.  She  was 
dreadfully  afraid  of  the  dark — and  of  cows. 
There  were  always  cows  in  country  roads. 
She  had  forbidden  him  to  speak  to  her.  Now, 
if  she  could  just  ask  him — never !  She  would 
sit  there  in  the  dark  until  she  petrified  first. 
She  would  rather  walk  fifty  miles,  at  midnight, 
through  herds  of  cows,  than  speak  to  him. 
Surely  some  one  would  come  along  with  a 
horse,  and  she  would  pay  anything  to  have  her 
motor  towed  to  the  village.  Yes,  some  one 
was  sure  to  come.  She  glued  her  gaze  to  the 
hilltop  and  waited. 

The  man  still  pottered  away  at  his  motor. 
He  had  gone  around  to  the  other  side  of  it 
now,  and  was  facing  the  distressed  damsel. 
Apparently  oblivious  to  her  presence,  he  studied, 
hungrily,  every  line  of  the  dear  face.  There 


The  Little  God  and  the  Machine        65 

were  soft  bluish  shadows  under  her  eyes,  and 
her  eyelids  were  faintly  tinged  with  pink. 
It  might  be  the  effect  of  the  wind — it  might  be 
—his  heart  melted  within  him,  but  he  pressed 
his  lips  firmly  together.  Now,  what  in  the 
deuce  did  she  intend  doing  ? 

As  for  himself,  he  had  given  up  all  hope  of 
doing  anything  with  his  machine.  There  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  walk  into  town  and  send 
out  for  the  motor;  but  he  couldn't  leave  a 
woman  alone  in  such  a  scrape,  not  even  when 
the  woman  was  heartless  and  cruel — and  a 
stranger  to  him. 

Of  course,  he  couldn't  speak  to  her.  He 
would  only  be  snubbed  for  his  pains  if  he 
should  do  it ;  and,  besides,  he  had  promised  her 
he  wouldn't  speak  to  her  until  he  could  do 
it  in  answer  to  her.  Chivalry  was  all  very 
well,  but  he  had  humbled  himself  in  the 
dust,  and  she  had  walked  over  him.  Now  it 
was  up  to  her.  Evidently  she  had  decided 
to  wait  for  a  chance  passer-by.  He  would 
wait  too. 

He  put  away  his  tools,  took  his  seat  in  the 
automobile,  tucked  the  robes  around  him,  and 
stared  as  steadily  toward  the  west  as  Prudence 
was  staring  toward  the  east.  His  sense  of 
humour,  numbed  by  pain  and  wrath,  began  to 


66  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

assert  itself,  and  his  lips  twitched,  but  the 
chauffeuse  did  not  look  in  his  direction. 

For  five  minutes,  ten  minutes,  they  sat 
there.  Fifteen  mmutes  passed  and  no  rescuer 
appeared. 

A  soft  drizzle  set  in,  as  the  watery  sun  sank 
behind  the  hills.  Ten  minutes  later  the  drizzle 
became  a  deluge. 

The  Man  looked  at  the  drabbled  little  woman 
in  the  runabout.  She  still  sat  stubbornly 
erect,  but  she  looked  ridiculously  small,  and  as 
he  watched  her  she  shivered  miserably. 

Her  veil  stuck  in  gluey  dampness  to  her 
face.  From  the  point  of  her  Tricorne  hat  a 
little  stream  of  water  dribbled  down  forlornly 
upon  her  saucy  nose.  Her  coat  soaked  up  the 
rain  greedily. 

Masculine  pride  gave  way,  though  masculine 
wrath  still  stuck  to  its  guns. 

The  chauffeur  climbed  out  of  his  machine, 
pulled  a  huge  waterproof  coat  from  under  the 
seat,  and  stalked,  like  a  heavy  tragedian,  across 
the  miry  strip  of  road  between  the  two  auto 
mobiles.  Without  a  word,  he  stood  a  small 
woman  upon  her  feet,  wrapped  the  mackintosh 
around  her,  buttoned  it  under  her  dimpled 
chin,  and  sat  her  down  hard  upon  the  cushioned 
seat. 


The  Little  God  and  the  Machine          67 

His  face  was  the  face  of  a  man  who  charges 
an  enemy's  guns. 

He  was  rough,  not  tender. 

No  smallest  trace  of  humility  or  pleading 
lingered  about  him. 

He  didn't  care  whether  she  liked  what  he  was 
doing  or  disliked  it. 

If  she  would  be  a  stubborn  little  fool,  and 
sit  there  in  the  rain  all  night,  at  least  she  should 
wear  that  waterproof  coat.  The  blood  of 
prehistoric  ancestral  wife-beaters  was  boiling 
in  his  veins — and,  after  all,  nothing  could  make 
matters  worse  for  him  than  they  were  already. 

Defiant,  glowering,  he  turned  away,  but  to 
his  amazement  the  sleeves  of  his  own  rain 
coat  went  round  his  neck  from  behind  and  held 
him. 

"  D-d-dick,"  said  a  wabbly  little  voice,  satu 
rated  with  tears,  shaken  by  hysterical  mirth — 
"  D-d-dick,  why  d-d-on't  you  t-t-take  a  club?" 

She  had  spoken. 

He  answered  her. 

Under  cover  of  darkness,  a  farmer  drove  four 
tired  horses  into  the  little  town. 

He  sat  alone  in  his  wagon,  but  behind  him 
he  towed  two  automobiles.  One  was  empty. 
From  the  other  came  sounds  of  unseemly  mirth, 
punctuated  by  intervals  of  rich  silence. 


IN  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  CHRIST 
MAS    CANDLES 


IN    THE    LIGHT    OP    THE    CHRISTMAS 
CANDLES 

A  SLIM,  erect  woman,  in  rather  shabby 
black,  turned  into  lower  Fifth  Avenue 
from  one  of  the  side  streets  and  walked 
northward,  slowly,  but  with  a  certain  quiet  self- 
confidence.  The  street-lamps  were  not  yet 
lighted,  but  the  dull  end  of  a  December  day 
was  closing  in  upon  the  world,  and  the  black 
figure  toned  in  with  the  drifting  grays,  like 
an  impressionistic  study  in  monotonous  values. 

Hurrying  folk  passed  the  woman  without 
giving  her  a  second  glance ;  and  she  on  her  part 
showed  no  interest  in  the  passers-by,  though 
she  lingered  for  a  moment  on  a  street-corner  to 
watch  a  dull-red  shaft  of  afterglow  touch  the 
stone  carving  of  a  church  tower  into  sudden 
warmth. 

As  she  stood  looking  at  the  flickering  light, 
a  short,  fat  woman,  rocking  down  the  avenue 
with  a  vigorous,  side-wheeler  motion,  caught 
sight  of  her,  stopped,  stared  incredulously,  and 
threw  two  expressive  hands  into  the  air. 

'  'Man  Dieu!     It  is  herself — of  a  certainty  ! 


72  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

Mademoiselle  !  You  have  not  forgotten  Fran- 
c.oise?" 

The  broad,  ruddy  face  was  beaming  with 
unmistakable  joy;  the  black  eyes  were  dancing 
with  excitement. 

Elizabeth  Vanderveck  smiled  swiftly,  and 
the  smile  changed  her  face  as  the  sunset  light 
had  transfigured  the  gray  tower. 

"  Franc, oise  !"  she  said,  a  trifle  breathlessly. 
"  Franchise,  you  remember  me  ? " 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  the  radiant  French 
woman  took  it  diffidently. 

"But  surely.  How  could  one  forget?"  she 
said  in  voluble  French.  "  Was  it  not  Made 
moiselle  whom  we  adored  ?  Ah,  Mademoiselle  ! 
It  is  to  tear  the  heart.  The  son  of  a  brewer 
is  in  our  house.  Me,  I  weep  when  I  pass  the 
door.  The  dinners  I  have  cooked  there, 
Mademoiselle — and  for  those  who  recognised 
the  dinner  recherche,  the  dinner  of  distinction. 
That  the  parvenues  should  have  our  house  !  It 
is  said  below  stairs  that  Madame  does  not 
know  Bechamel  from  sauce  Meuniere.  And 
you,  Mademoiselle?  You  have  made  the  voy 
age.  You  are  now  in  New  York  to  stay,  is  it 
not?" 

The  exclamatory  French  woman's  keen, 
friendly  eyes  had  taken  in  every  detail  of  the 


In  the  Light  of  the  Christmas  Candles    73 

figure  before  her.  Even  in  the  gathering  dusk 
they  had  appraised  the  value  of  the  cheap,  black 
coat,  noted  the  worn,  black  gloves,  the  neat 
but  old-fashioned  hat.  Then  they  travelled 
to  the  face  in  which  gentle  kindliness  mingled 
oddly  with  stubborn  pride.  There  were  lines 
in  the  clean-cut,  aristocratic  face  that  had  not 
been  there  eight  years  earlier,  but  the  lips  were 
curved  as  proudly  as  ever,  the  head  had  kept 
its  haughty  poise. 

"  A  grande  dame  always,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"That  it  is  to  have  the  blood.  Son  of  a 
brewer!  Pah!"  she  snorted  aloud  with  a 
sudden  vehemence  that  made  her  former 
mistress  start  nervously. 

"  But  he  may  have  made  very  good  beer, 
Francoise,"  Miss  Vanderveck  protested  with  a 
certain  tranquil  amusement. 

The  old  house  on  Washington  Square,  in 
which  she  and  her  father  before  her  had  been 
born,  had  passed  out  of  the  Vanderveck  family. 
She  had  had  years  in  which  to  become  accus 
tomed  to  that  fact.  Since  it  was  no  longer  the 
Vanderveck  house,  why  should  she  care  into 
what  nouveaux  riches  hands  it  fell?  Poverty 
makes  anarchists,  cynics,  philosophers.  Miss 
Vanderveck  was  too  well-born  for  anarchy,  too 
well-bred  for  cynicism,  but  the  years  since  her 


74  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

father's  ruin  and  death  and  her  own  self -exile 
had  taught  her  something  of  philosophy. 

"Mademoiselle  permits  that  I  accompany 
her  to  her  door  ?  It  is  late  for  her  to  make  the 
promenade  alone." 

Franchise  was  bursting  with  curiosity,  but 
she  could  ask  no  questions. 

Miss  Vanderveck  hesitated  for  an  instant, 
and  a  faint  flush  rose  in  her  cheeks,  but  it  went 
as  quickly  as  it  came,  and  an  odd  little  smile 
flickered  around  her  lips. 

"I  am  used  to  being  out  alone,"  she  said 
simply,  "but  I  should  be  glad  to  have  you  walk 
home  with  me.  How  has  the  world  used  you, 
Frangoise?  My  lawyer  told  me  that  all  the 
servants  found  places  at  once." 

"But  yes,  Mademoiselle;  and  Monsieur 
1'avocat  gave  us  the  month's  wages,  by  order 
of  Mademoiselle.  Places  ?  With  me  it  was 
an  embarrassment,  a  pursuit.  One  remembered 
your  diriners,  Mademoiselle,  and  coveted  your 
cook.  It  is  in  all  modesty  I  say  it.  One  is 
born  with  the  genius.  One  deserves  little 
credit.  I  considered  the  offers.  The  Belmore 
family  had  need  of  both  a  cook  and  a  butler. 
They  are  not  the  true  aristocrats,  but  they  are 
not  without  grandfathers,  and  they  have 
money.  One  must  make  concessions — and 


In  the  Light  of  the  Christmas  Candles    75 

certainly  is  was  an  advantage  that  they 
needed,  too,  a  butler.  Surely,  Mademoiselle 
remembers  Watkins  ? ' ' 

Miss  Vanderveck  nodded.  "The  impos 
ing  Watkins !  No  one  could  forget  him, 
Francoise." 

"Exactly,  Mademoiselle!  Me,  I  had  be 
come  used  to  Watkins.  He  was  of  an  intelli 
gence,  of  a  sensibility,  and  of  a  figure — Man 
Dieu,  what  a  figure,  superb  for  a  butler,  he 
has !  So  that  I  would  not  lose  him,  I  married 
him.  We  are  with  the  Belmores,  who  are  now 
on  the  Riviera,  while  we  guard  the  house  here. 
They  are  not  of  the  highest.  I  have  already 
said  it.  But  what  would  you  ?  It  is  a  com 
promise." 

The  two  women  had  turned  off  the  avenue, 
and  walked  westward  along  a  side  street,  until 
the  desirable  residence  district  was  far  behind 
them.  Finally,  Miss  Vanderveck  stopped  before 
a  new  and  cheap  apartment -house. 

"I  live  here,"  she  said  with  a  touch  of 
hauteur.  The  pride  in  her  face  had  driven  out 
the  softness,  yet  she  spoke  gently.  "  I  will  not 
ask  you  to  come  up,  Francoise.  It  is  late. 
You  were  kind  to  see  me  safely  home,  and  it 
has  been  pleasant  to  meet  you;  but  for  the 
people  who  knew  me  in  the  old  days  I  do  not 


76  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

exist.  You  will  oblige  me  by  remembering 
that,  Franchise." 

This  suggestion  was  a  royal  command. 

"  But,  Mademoiselle,  you  will  surely  permit 
that  I,  Francoise,  come  to  see  that  you  are 
well." 

There  were  genuine  tears  in  the  imploring 
eyes,  and  Miss  Vanderveck  relented.  "Yes, 
you  may  come." 

"And  for  the  Christmas,  Mademoiselle? 
You  will  be  alone,  is  it  not  ?" 

The  pale,  thin  face  looked  a  trifle  paler,  a 
trifle  thinner.  Yes,  she  would  be  alone. 

"  If  Mademoiselle  would  but  do  me  a  favour, 
for  the  sake  of  the  old  service,"  stammered  the 
French  woman.  "Watkins  and  I,  we  also  are 
alone.  It  is  not  good  to  pass  the  Noel  so  with 
out  the  fete,  the  gaiety.  Not  to  prepare  a 
Christmas  dinner !  I,  Franchise,  to  fold  my 
hands  when  the  day  of  dinners  is  come !  It 
would  be  of  a  sadness,  of  a  waste,  Mademoiselle. 
When  one  has  the  genius  one  owes  something 
to  the  world.  One  must  find  expression.  If 
Mademoiselle  would  but  permit  that  we  should 
offer  her  Christmas  dinner- 
Miss  Vanderveck 's  face  was  forbidding,  but 
Fran£oise  stumbled  desperately  on. 

"There  would  then  be  a  true  Christmas  fete 


In  the  Light  of  the  Christmas  Candles    77 

for  us,  Mademoiselle — to  be  allowed  to  serve 
you,  to  prove  that  we  have  not  forgotten  your 
goodness,  that  there  is  the  service  of  love. 
From  my  heart  I  could  plan  a  dinner.  I  feel 
now  the  inspiration  within  me." 

She  stopped  for  breath ;  but  Miss  Vanderveck 
did  not  speak.  If  the  thing  had  not  been 
incredible  one  would  have  said  that  the  firm 
lips  were  trembling  and  that  there  was  a  mist 
in  the  proud,  brown  eyes. 

Franchise  took  heart  of  grace. 

"  Mademoiselle  would  think  of  nothing,  know 
nothing.  Me,  I  would  prepare  everything. 
Watkins  would  serve — and  we  would  be  of  a 
happiness.  For  a  Christmas  present  to  us, 
Mademoiselle,  you  will  say  'yes.'  Is  it  not?" 

She  stopped,  dismayed  by  her  own  hardihood. 
No  thunderbolt  fell. 

Miss  Vanderveck  stood  looking  at  her  with 
a  beautiful  light  in  her  eyes. 

"You  are  a  good  woman,  Franchise — a 
loyal  friend.  I  am  glad  to  know  there  are  such 
as  you.  It  seems  I  have  misjudged  the  world." 

Franchise  laughed  a  gay,  little  laugh  of  relief 
and  delight. 

"Eh  bien,  it  is  understood?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  will  not  give  a  thought  to  the  Christmas 


78  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

dinner?  You  will  not  look  into  the  dining- 
room,  the  kitchen?" 

"I  promise." 

"Oh,  Mademoiselle,  I  am  proud,  grateful. 
Watkins,  too,  will  be  enchanted.  You  are  an 
angel,  Mademoiselle,  It  shall  be  a  dinner  for 
an  angel — with  the  tastes  worldly.  Good-night, 
Mademoiselle." 

She  was  gone. 

Miss  Vanderveck  went  up  the  narrow  stairway 
and  into  her  apartment.  She  took  off  her  coat 
and  hat  and  gloves  in  the  dim  light  that  filtered 
through  the  windows.  Then  she  lay  down  upon 
the  couch,  and  for  the  first  time  since  she  disap 
peared  from  a  world  in  which  no  Vanderveck 
had  ever  been  pitied  or  patronised,  she  cried 
softly. 

Meanwhile  the  French  woman  who  conde 
scended  to  minister  to  the  palates  of  the 
Belmare  family,  when  that  family  was  not  globe 
trotting,  was  hurrying  back  toward  Fifth 
Avenue  as  fast  as  two  hundred  pounds  of  flesh 
and  embarrassing  shortness  of  breath  would 
allow.  She  must  see  Watkins.  She  must  tell 
him  the  news,  and  in  order  to  avoid  explosion, 
she  must  tell  it  soon.  News  like  this  was 
too  effervescent  to  be  retained  with  safety. 
It  must  be  shared  at  once. 


In  the  Light  of  the  Christmas  Candles    79 

As  the  fat  little  woman  turned  into  the 
avenue,  a  man  came  down  the  steps  of  a  big 
brick  house  and  paused  for  a  moment  to  light 
his  cigar. 

Franc,  oise,  scurrying  Watkinsward,  was  yet 
not  blind  to  the  merits  of  other  masculinity. 
Her  glance  took  in  the  tall,  immaculately  clad 
figure  appreciatively.  It  was  a  portly  figure — 
a  figure  coquetting  with  embonpoint,  yet  linger 
ing  on  the  hither  side  of  discretion's  boundary- 
line. 

There  are  men  who  exude  prosperity  at  the 
pores,  and  Dudley  Broughton's  prosperity, 
while  not  aggressive,  was  subtly  and  inex 
tinguishably  self-assertive.  He  had  been  born 
to  the  material  good  things  and  he  had  not 
thrown  away  his  birthright.  Possibly  he  had 
allowed  it  to  assume  undue  proportion  in  his 
scheme  of  life ;  yet  the  man  was  no  sensualist — 
merely  self-absorbed  and  self-indulgent,  after 
the  manner  of  men  for  whom  life  has  been 
made  comfortable. 

Francoise,  looking  at  the  handsome,  indiffer 
ent  face,  illumined  by  the  lighted  match,  gave 
a  dramatic  start.  This  was  her  day  of  sensa 
tions;  and,  being  French,  she  appreciated  it. 
Eight  years  had  not  passed  since  she  had  seen 
Dudley  Broughton.  In  point  of  fact,  she  had 


8o  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

passed  him  on  the  street  only  a  few  days  before, 
but  then  he  suggested  no  romance  to  her  quick 
brain.  Now  he  was  a  possibility.  There  had 
been  a  time  when  he  seemed  a  probability,  but 
that  was  long  before,  when  the  old  house  on 
Washington  Square  held  its  own,  and  the 
servants'  hall  buzzed  with  gossip  about  the 
mistress  and  her  admirers. 

For  Franchise  even  a  possibility  had  its 
charms. 

Why  turn  one's  back  upon  Heaven-sent 
opportunity?  If  he  did  not  care  to  know, 
no  harm  would  be  done.  If  he  had  heart — 
this  Monsieur  Broughton  —  he  would  rejoice. 
Mademoiselle  had  commanded  that  no  one 
should  be  told.  Oh,  la,  la !  If  one  did  only 
what  was  commanded  the  world  would  be  of 
a  slowness. 

"Monsieur," 

Dudley  Broughton  took  his  cigar  from  his 
lips,  lifted  his  hat  slightly,  and  stood  courteously 
waiting,  without  a  hint  of  recognition  in  his 
face. 

Franchise  spurred  her  courage. 

"Monsieur  would  not  remember — it  is  not 
to  be  expected — but  in  the  old  days  he  was 
gracious  enough  to  praise  my  sole  au  vin 
blanc." 


In  the  Light  of  the  Christmas  Candles    8r 

"Frangoise,"  he  said.  "I  make  you  my 
homage.  There  is  no  other  cook  in  New  York 
who  could  equal  it." 

A  smile  flashed  into  the  man's  face.  "  Fran- 
goise,  you  were  with  the  Vandervecks.  I 
remember  you  perfectly.  I  remember  the  sole, 
too.  I  begged  to  be  presented  to  you." 

"Yes,  Monsieur;  and  Miss  Vanderveck  sent 
for  me.  Ah,  Monsieur,  it  is  because  of  her  that 
I  have  spoken  to  you.  I  apologise,  but  when 
the  heart  speaks  one  does  the  thing  impulsive. 
Me,  Monsieur,  I  am  all  heart." 

She  pressed  a  chubby  hand  against  her 
breast. 

Dudley  Broughton's  placid  face  had  sharpened 
slightly. 

"  What  do  you  know  of  her?"  he  asked. 

The  shrewd  little  French  woman  heard  the 
ring  of  interest  in  his  voice  and  mentally  ap 
plauded  herself. 

"  I  have  but  just  left  her,  Monsieur." 

"Here?     In  New  York?" 

"Of  a  surety,  Monsieur." 

"  She  is  living  here  ? " 

"  Since  the  first  of  the  month." 

"But  where?     How?" 

He  pulled  himself  up  suddenly.  One  is  not 
a  boy  at  fifty,  and  one  does  not  make  a  confidant 


82  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

of  a  stranger  whom  one  meets  on  the  street- 
corner. 

But  Franchise  was  uncorked.  The  story- 
gurgled  out,  and  the  man  who  listened,  knowing 
Elizabeth  Vanderveck  well,  and  belonging  to 
the  world  upon  which  she  had  turned  her  back, 
understood,  as  the  good-hearted  woman  of 
another  class  and  of  different  traditions  could 
not  understand. 

"Voild,"  finished  Frangoise.  "Voild  the 
story.  It  is  of  a  meanness,  that  apartment- 
house,  and  she  had  the  air  poor — but  always 
the  aristocrat.  Already  I  have  meditated  upon 
the  dinner,  Monsieur.  It  shall  be  of  the  best. 
Wat  kins  and  I  have  made  the  bank  account." 
"  If  you  would  allow— 

The  man's  hand  went  to  his  pocket,  but  the 
French  woman's  face  flushed. 

"Pardon,  Monsieur,  no.  It  is  I,  Franchise, 
who  dffers  the  dinner.  Mademoiselle  permits. 
But  it  is  this  for  which  I  ventured  to  stop 
Monsieur.  I  knew  him  to  be  an  old  friend  of 
the  family,  and  I  said  to  myself,  '  To  dine  alone 
is  not  right,  on  the  Noel.'  Then  the  dinner — 
more  than  one  should  appreciate  it.  Perhaps 
Monsieur  Broughton  would  have  the  kindness 
not  for  me,  but  for  the  old  friendship- 
She  stuck  fast,  tangled  in  embarrassment— 


In  the  Light  of  the  Christmas  Candles    83 

then  went  on  breathlessly;  "If  you  could  but 
add  to  the  pleasure — to  the  surprise — if  you 
would  but  dine  with  Mademoiselle  on  Christmas 
Day.  I  would  have  all  things  ready;  it  would 
be  like  a  dinner  out  of  the  past.  It  is  not  good 
that  one  should  see  no  old  friend  on  the  Noel, 
Monsieur!" 

The  man  was  as  embarrassed  as  she — but 
with  a  difference. 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  eat  your  dinner,  Fran- 
goise,  but — Mademoiselle — it  would  be  an 
intrusion.  She  has  never  sent  me  word — she 
would  have  let  me  know  if  she  had  been  willing 
I  should  come." 

He  was  stammering  like  a  boy. 

"The  pride,  Monsieur — only  the  pride.  A 
friend  laughs  at  the  pride.  And  on  Christmas 
Day — it  is  the  season  of  good  will,  is  it  not— 
the  season  of  the  soft  heart?  The  Christmas 
candles  would  melt  the  pride,  Monsieur.  You 
will  come?" 

He  hesitated,  then  squared  his  shoulders. 

"Yes,  Franchise.     I  will  go." 

"  A  la  bonne  heure!  There  shall  be  sole  an 
vin  blanc." 

"You  will  give  me  the  address,  and  I  may 
send  flowers?" 

"To  me,  Monsieur.     It  is  to  be  a  surprise." 


84  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

She  gave  him  the  address. 

"  Au  revoir,  Monsieur.  You  are  of  a  kindness. 
It  shall  be  a  success,  that  Christmas  dinner." 

She  hurried  on  to  Watkins 

Dudley  Broughton  stopped  a  passing  cab 
and  drove  to  his  club.  He  could  think  better 
at  the  club.  In  fact,  he  found  that  he  could 
do  most  things  better  at  the  club. 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  excellence  of  that 
club,  he  might,  perhaps,  have— 

His  thoughts  went  back  to  the  days  when 
the  Vandervecks  lived  in  the  old  Vanderveck 
house  and  he  was  exceedingly  at  home  there. 
He  could  remember  Elizabeth's  debut.  She 
was  a  pretty  girl,  a  trifle  cold  and  proud,  even 
then,  but  he  admired  her — tranquilly.  He 
was  past  enthusiasm  over  debutantes,  and 
already  dancing  under  protest.  It  was  on  her 
father's  account  that  he  had  drifted  into  the 
position  of  friend  of  the  house.  At  least,  that 
was  what  he  had  thought,  but  the  debutante 
matured  into  a  lovely  woman,  and  he  still 
admired  her — tranquilly.  She  had  stood  as 
his  standard  for  womanhood.  He  had  felt  that 
if  he  should  marry,  his  wife  would  be  like  her. 
Probably  he  would  marry  some  day — some 
far-off  day.  One  ought  to  do  that  sort  of  thing, 
and  Elizabeth — but  one  was  so  comfortable  at 


In  the  Light  of  the  Christmas  Candles    85 

the  club.  Marriage  entailed  responsibilities, 
curtailing  of  freedom,  domestic  difficulties, 
trouble  with  servants,  bad  dinners.  At  the 
club  one  had  what  one  wanted,  and  one  paid 
one's  dues.  That  was  all. 

The  gossips  grew  tired  of  connecting  his 
name  with  Miss  Vanderveck.  Elizabeth  was 
cordial,  serene.  She  had  admirers,  a  host  of 
them,  and  each  one  went  away,  in  time;  but 
Dudley  Broughton  still  dined  at  the  house 
regularly  on  Sundays  and  dropped  in  at  all 
hours.  He  was*  a  selfish  man,  not  a  vain  one, 
and  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  Elizabeth 
loved  him.  Of  course  he  loved  her.  He 
accepted  that  fact  as  he  accepted  the  sunsets, 
but  things  were  very  well  as  they  were. 

He  was  in  India  when  the  crash  came;  and 
months  went  by  before  he  heard  of  the  financial 
failure,  with  the  ugly  suggestions  of  disgrace 
hanging  round  it,  and  of  Peyton  Vanderveck 's 
sudden  death.  He  wrote  to  Elizabeth  at  once, 
but  he  had  never  heard  from  her.  She  had 
been  courageous  enough  to  do  her  own  surgery, 
to  walk  off  the  stage  before  she  could  be  elbowed 
from  it.  No  one  knew  anything  about  her, 
save  the  family  lawyer,  and  his  lips  were  sealed. 

Society  gossiped,  wondered,  and  then  forgot 
the  Vanderveck  bankruptcy,  in  the  Chittenden 


86  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

divorce.  Even  the  real  friends  forgot,  in 
time. 

Thinking  the  story  over  as  he  dined,  Dudley 
Broughton  realised  that  he,  too,  had  practically 
forgotten,  though  he  had  been  sadly  shaken  up 
and  hurt  when  he  found  that  the  one  woman  he 
admired — tranquilly — had  dropped  out  of  his 
life  and  .made  no  sign  to  him.  He  had  never 
realised  that  she  had  not  understood — that  she 
had  not  believed  he  would  care. 

Now  she  was  in  New  York.  He  would  See 
her — and  something  stirred  in  him  that  sur 
prised  him  mildly. 

He  ate  his  dinner  in  perfunctory  fashion, 
roamed  into  the  smoking-room,  ensconced  him 
self  in  a  big  chair,  lighted  a  good  cigar,  and  sat 
staring  at  the  ceiling.  Only  once  during  the 
evening  did  he  speak.  A  friend  slapped  him  on 
the  shoulder. 

"My  boy's  half-back  on  the  Yale  team, 
Broughton,"  he  said  proudly. 

Broughton  lowered  his  gaze  from  the  ceiling. 

"  Eh,  what  ?     Oh,  yes.     Nice  boy  ?" 

"Well,  rather.  I'm  going  down  to  the 
station  to  meet  him  now," 

"How  many  children  have  you,  Courtney?" 

"Four;  and  they're  the  finest  ever.  My 
small  girl  makes  her  debut  this  winter,  and  she's  a 


In  the  Light  of  the  Christmas  Candles    87 

winner.  Why  the  deuce  don't  you  marry,  old 
man?" 

He  walked  away. 

Broughton  relapsed  into  silence.  After  a 
time  he  put  on  his  coat  and  hat  and  went  to  the 
theatre.  For  the  first  time  the  club  seemed  big 
and  cheerless. 

When  Elizabeth  Vanderveck  opened  her 
door  in  the  dusk  of  Christmas  day,  suggestions 
of  festivity  smote  her  nostrils.  The  scent  of 
American  Beauty  roses  mingled  with  an  odour 
of  highly  seasoned  cookery.  Violets  and  lilies - 
of -the -valley  defied  the  kitchen  to  do  its  worst. 

For  a  moment  the  mistress  of  the  place  looked 
puzzled.  Then  she  remembered.  Evidently 
Frangoise  and  her  Watkins  had  taken  possession 
while  she  had  her  long  walk.  Her  lamps  were 
lighted.  Her  little  front  room  was  full  of 
flowers.  Surely  Franchise  could  not  have  re 
membered  her  preference  for  valley  lilies,  yet 
there  were  masses  of  them  on  the  little  tea- 
table. 

The  curtains  between  the  tiny  parlour  and 
the  tinier  dining-room  were  drawn,  and  Miss 
Vanderveck  smiled  at  the  mystery  in  which 
this  odd  Christmas  celebration  of  hers  was 
shrouded.  Still  smiling,  she  sank  wearily  into 


88  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

a  low  chair,  and,  closing  her  eyes,  sat  quietly 
with  the  perfume  of  the  lilies  caressing  her 
senses  and  old  Christmas  times  drifting  through 
her  thoughts,  until  a  subdued  clatter  of  china 
and  glass,  behind  the  curtains,  roused  her. 

She  must  dress  for  her  dinner.  Depression 
and  untidy  hair  would  be  a  poor  return  for  the 
friendliness  of  Franchise  and  Watkins.  The 
occasion  was  festive ;  well,  festive  it  should  be, 
if  she  could  make  it  so. 

She  went  down  the  hall  and  into  her  bed 
room,  put  away  her  coat  and  hat  and  turned 
to  her  mirror.  The  woman  she  saw  there  did 
not  suggest  gaiety.  Her  face  rose  pale  and 
weary  above  the  sombre  black  of  her  gown, 
and  her  brown  hair  was  brushed  smoothly  back 
from  her  brow.  A  sprinkling  of  gray  showed 
in  the  brown,  and  Miss  Vanderveck  eyed  it  with 
gloomy  disapproval.  The  disapproval  extended 
itself  to  include  the  black  gown.  What  place 
had  black  at  a  Christmas  dinner  ? 

A  gleam  of  inspiration  dawned  in  Miss 
Vanderveck's  eyes,  and  with  a  certain  shame 
faced  determination  she  opened  a  trunk,  that 
stood  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  and  recklessly 
tossed  its  contents  on  the  floor.  Down  at  the 
bottom  she  found  the  thing  of  which  she  had 
been  in  search,  and  as  she  shook  it  out  the  gas- 


In  the  Light  of  the  Christmas  Candles    89 

light  rioted  over  the  glowing  silken  folds  of  rose 
colour.  She  had  kept  no  other  gown  of  the 
kind.  What  had  rose-colour  dinner-gowns  to 
do  with  her  life  now?  But  this  gown  had 
associations.  It  had  been  a  favourite  with  old 
friends.  It — well,  she  had  kept  it. 

She  rose  to  her  feet  with  the  brilliant  burden 
in  her  arms,  and  looked  from  the  gown  to  the 
mirror,  from  the  mirror  to  the  gown.  Eight 
years  had  not  made  her  lamentably  old.  She 
had  a  fancy  to  see  what  the  vanities  could  do 
toward  wiping  out  the  traces  of  those  dull 
years. 

Her  hair  first.  She  let  down  the  soft,  brown 
mass,  and  drawing  it  loosely  to  the  top  of  her 
head,  fastened  it  in  soft  puffs  and  allowed  it 
to  wave  flumly  about  her  face.  The  effect 
was  encouraging,  and  the  faint  colour  in  her 
cheeks  deepened.  After  all,  forty -two  was 
not  an  appalling  age,  and  why  shouldn't  one 
be  good  to  look  at  even  if  there  was  no  one 
to  look? 

She  slipped  into  the  shimmering  pink  gown. 
It  was  out  of  date  as  fashions  go,  but  it  had 
been  a  picturesque  gown  in  the  first  place,  and 
it  kept  its  art  value.  Miss  Vanderveck's 
sloping  white  shoulders  rose  bare  from  out  of  a 
foam  of  fine  old  lace.  They  had  always  been 


QO  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

good  shoulders.  Eight  years  had  not  changed 
them. 

The  forlorn  figure  in  rusty  black  had  faded 
out  of  the  mirror.  In  its  place  was  a  slender 
woman  with  a  delicate  patrician  face,  who 
carried  her  head  in  regal  fashion  and  wore  a 
superb  gown  with  nonchalant  grace. 

"You  could  no  it  even  now,"  she  said 
enigmatically,  and  in  the  shadowy  background 
of  the  mirror  men's  faces  came  and  went.  She 
had  ruled  right  royally  in  the  days  when  the 
pink  gown  was  new. 

She  turned  and  trailed  her  rustling  skirts 
down  the  narrow  hall  to  the  little  drawing-room. 
She  was  living  over  again  those  days  when  the 
world  went  well. 

In  the  doorway  she  paused,  and  from  the 
corner  of  the  dimly  lighted  room  a  man  came 
to  meet  her.  She  was  not  surprised.  He  was 
a  part  of  the  dream,  and  she  held  out  her  hands 
to  him  graciously,  as  she  had  given  them  to 
him  in  the  old  days. 

"  Dudley,"  she  said  happily.  There  was  no 
surprise  in  her  voice — only  tranquil  acceptance 
of  a  great  good. 

He  held  the  slim  white  hands  and  looked  at 
her  with  a  vague  wonder  in  his  eyes.  This  was 
not  the  forlorn  woman  Franchise  had  described. 


In  the  Light  of  the  Christmas  Candles    91 

This  was  Elizabeth  at  her  best.     He  had  for-, 
gotten  that  she  was  so  lovely. 

"  Dinner  is  served." 

Watkins  stood  in  the  dining-room  doorway, 
dignified,  imposing,  outwardly  imperturbable, 
though  curiosity  seethed  within  him. 

Miss  Vanderveck  looked  at  him.  He,  too, 
was  a  part  of  the  dream.  She  took  her  guest's 
arm  and  went  with  him  into  the  little  room 
where  for  a  month  past  she  had  eaten  her 
simple  and  solitary  meals.  Silver  and  cut- 
glass,  fine  napery,  great  bowls  of  roses  flouted 
the  close,  crowding  walls  and  the  cheap  furni 
ture,  and  Watkins  loomed  large,  irreproachable, 
serene,  though  the  incongruity  of  his  stage- 
setting  might  well  have  shattered  a  less  masterly 
repose  of  manner. 

The  kitchen  door  was  slightly  ajar,  and 
through  the  crack  peered  an  appreciative  eye, 
unseen  but  seeing. 

Miss  Vanderveck  sank  into  her  chair  and 
looked  across  the  roses  at  the  man  who  sat 
opposite. 

"It  is  good,"  she  said  simply,  and  his  eyes 
repeated  her  words. 

"You  were  unkind,  unfair." 

She  nodded.  "Yes;  it  seems  the  pessimists 
are  all  wrong.  The  world  has  a  heart." 


92  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

No  more  explanation.  Out  of  the  experience 
of  years  they  understood,  and  the  woman's 
pride  melted,  with  the  man's  selfishness,  in  the 
flame  of  the  Christmas  candles. 

Francoise  was  proven  prophet. 

They  ate  their  oysters — those  two  who  were 
finding  themselves — and  they  did  justice  to 
course  after  course  of  a  wonderful  dinner. 

Francoise  was  more  than  a  prophet.  She 
was  a  cook.  Her  dishes  were  worthy  to  belong 
in  the  dream. 

It  was  a  gay  little  dinner.  Even  Watkins 
lost  a  shade  of  his  portentous  solemnity  and 
consented  to  see  humour  in  the  fact  that  there 
was  barely  room  for  him  to  squeeze  between 
sideboard  and  table,  though  up  to  the  entree 
the  wound  to  his  dignity  rankled  sorely. 

Miss  Vanderveck's  cheeks  grew  pinker  each 
time  she  met  her  old  friend's  eyes  across  the 
roses,  and  her  voice  held  a  tremulous  little  note, 
though  she  talked  and  laughed  lightly. 

The  man  watching  her  heard  the  thrill  in  her 
voice  and  saw  some  inner  thrill  stir  into  ripples 
the  serenity  of  the  steady  brown  eyes.  The 
restless  discontent  that  had  wakened  when 
he  knew  that  she  had  come  back  into  his  life 
rose  and  beat  against  his  indifferent  egoism, 
and  a  touch  of  eager  boyishness  crept  into  his 


In  the  Light  of  the  Christmas  Candles   93 

face  and  manner.  How  a  man  could  waste  the 
years,  he  thought,  and  walk  blindly  side  by  side 
with  happiness ! 

Watkins  put  the  coffee  upon  the  table  and 
discreetly  withdrew.  Franchise  had  prompted 
him,  and,  when  he  appeared  in  the  kitchen,  she 
cast  herself  upon  his  manly  breast  and  wiped 
away  a  tear  with  a  dish-towel. 

"  I  have  done  my  best,"  she  said  dramatically. 
"  It  is  now  in  the  hands  of  le  Bon  Dieu.  Such  a 
dinner  should  have  made  it  of  an  easiness  for 
him." 

In  the  dining-room  there  was  silence  as  the 
door  closed.  Then  Miss  Vanderveck  lifted  a 
glass  to  her  lips. 

"  To  the  old  days  ! "  she  said  softly. 

Dudley  Broughton  shook  his  head. 

"To  the  coming  days!"  he  amended.  His 
hand  went  out  across  the  table  and  found  hers. 

Two  servants  sat  in  the  little  kitchen  and 
waited  anxiously.  An  hour  went  by.  Ten 
o'clock  came. 

"  'E's  'avin'  trouble,"  said  Watkins. 

Franchise  was  more  hopeful. 

"  It  is  that  they  have  forgotten.  That  is  the 
good  sign,"  she  murmured. 

The  bell  rang  sharply,  and  Watkins  sprang 
to  the  door  with  an  eagerness  foreign  to  his 


94  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

habitual  calm,  but  he  entered  the  dining-room 
with  his  usual  noiseless  dignity.  Behind  him 
appeared  the  fat  form  and  shining  face  of 
Francoise,  prophetess,  culinary  genius  dea  ex 
machina.  She  had  forgotten  to  close  the  door. 

Dudley  Broughton  looked  at  the  couple  and 
smiled.  His  chair  was  on  Miss  Vanderveck's 
side  of  the  table. 

"Watkins,"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  huge 
content  in  his  usually  dry  voice,  "  are  you  and 
Francoise  pledged  to  the  Belmores  after  their 
return  next  month  ? " 

"No,  sir." 

Francoise  had  come  forward  and  was  beaming 
at  her  husband's  side. 

"We  think,"  said  Mr.  Broughton,  with  a 
certain  lingering  emphasis  on  the  "we,"  and  a 
look  at  the  \voman  beside  him,  "we  think  we 
shall  need  you  after  we  come  back  from 
Florida." 


A  VISITING   PEER 


A  VISITING  PEER 

THE  Howisons  lived  in  a  New  York 
suburb,  but  that  was  the  worst  that 
could  be  said  of  them. 

Their  own  particular  suburb  was  much  like 
other  suburbs  of  the  better  sort,  and  the 
Howison  house  was  a  centuplet,  but  it  was  a 
very  jolly  little  house,  for  all  that. 

"  Five  minutes  from  the  station,  natural 
shingles,  white  woodwork,  adorable  veranda — 
and  no  stained  glass,"  was  Mrs.  Howison's 
description  of  the  place.  Howison  always 
mentioned  a  porcelain  tub  and  a  yard  big 
enough  for  a  tennis  court.  There  were  minor 
details,  but  they  have  no  place  in  a  short  story. 

Bridget  and  Ellen  were  not  minor  details, 
but  they,  too,  are  somewhat  foreign  to  the  tale, 
save  as  promoters,  for  they  left,  at  an  hour's 
notice,  on  Saturday  morning.  Wilkins,  the 
milkman,  had  something  to  do  with  the  pre 
cipitate  decampment — not  in  his  official  capac 
ity,  for  he  was  an  unexceptionable  milkman ;  but 
he  was  also  a  bachelor,  and  no  bachelor  should 
drive  a  milk-wagon.  It  gives  him  too  much 

97 


98  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

scope  for  conquest.  Mortal  man  could  not 
reasonably  be  expected  to  be  adamant,  in  the 
matter  of  backdoor  overtures;  and  Wilkins 
was  not  only  mortal,  but  a  good-looking  and 
impressionable  mortal,  with  fine  Catholic  tastes. 

Bridget  and  Ellen  were  Catholics,  but  their 
tastes  were  restricted,  and  when  it  came  to 
sharing  Wilkins'  affection,  they  were  Prot 
estants. 

Each  made  well-chosen  and  perfectly  intel 
ligible  remarks  concerning  the  other's  ante 
cedents,  character,  and  susceptibility,  and 
concerning  the  milkman's  real  feelings.  Each 
refused  to  live  under  the  same  roof  with  the 
other  for  another  hour.  Neither  would  stay 
in  the  house  after  being  accused  of  wanting  to 
stay  so  that  she  might  throw  herself  at  the 
milkman's  curly  head.  Bridget  took  the  trolley 
to  Newark.  Ellen  boarded  an  Erie  train. 

When  Howison  came  home,  at  four  o'clock, 
he  found  his  wife  sitting  among  kitchen  debris, 
like  Marius  among  the  ruins  of  Carthage. 

"They've  both  gone,"  she  said  forlornly. 
"  I've  just  been  looking  over  the  broken  glass 
and  china." 

Howison  is  a  lover  as  well  as  a  commuter. 
He  did  the  most  comforting  thing  possible  under 
the  circumstances.  Two  years'  experience  with 


A  Visiting  Peer  99 

domestic  tragedies  had  perfected  his  method, 
and  Mrs.  Howison  finally  admitted  that  there 
was  balm  in  the  possession  of  an  angel  husband. 
Then  they  laid  the  table  for  two,  Howison 
protesting,  the  while,  that  he  always  preferred  a 
cold  supper  on  July  nights,  and  that  for  the 
promotion  of  sheer  gastronomic  bliss  he  would 
choose  cold  lamb  and  tomato  salad  before  any 
other  menu  that  had  ever  swum  within  his  ken. 

At  five  o'clock,  arrayed  in  summery  fine 
linen,  they  sat  within  the  screened  cage  that  is 
the  Jersey  version  of  veranda,  trying  to  forget 
that  they  would  have  to  cook  their  own  Sunday- 
morning  breakfast. 

"  Now,  if  we  were  in  town,  we  could  go  around 
the  corner  to  a  restaurant,  or  have  breakfast 
sent  in,  or " 

"Why,  Teddy!"  interrupted  Mrs.  Howison, 
with  tearful  reproach  in  her  tone. 

Teddy  slid  to  base. 

"Oh,  of  course,  darling,  I  wouldn't  be 
happier  in  town.  This  is  really  the  ideal  thing. 
A  fellow  does  want  a  big  kitchen,  and  linen- 
closets,  and  a  laundry,  and  room  for  his  party 
clothes." 

There  was  a  glibness  in  the  recitative  that 
suggested  quotation,  but  his  face  was  earnest 
and  sincere. 


TOO  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

"  Servants  do  stir  things  up  a  bit  out  here," 
he  went  on ;  "  but  one  can't  expect  anything 
to  be  perfect — except  one's  wife." 

He  resorted  once  more  to  unanswerable 
argument. 

"Teddy,  the  neighbours  certainly  will  see 
us!"  Mrs.  Teddy  protested. 

"Let  'em,"  urged  the  valiant  Howison,  who 
was  not  only  in  love  with  his  own  wife,  but 
shameless  enough  to  be  proud  of  it.  "  By 
Jove,  who's  that?" 

The  station  hack  drew  up  before  the  Howison 
gate.  From  it  descended  a  formidable  length 
and  breadth  of  rather  noisy-checked  tweed, 
which  resolved  itself  into  a  large  man  built 
upon  the  massive  lines  of  early  English  archi 
tecture.  He  pulled  from  the  dilapidated  hack 
two  huge  bags,  which  had  apparently 
been  made  to  match  him,  and  gave  the  driver 
a  tip,  which  surprised  that  free-born  son  of 
American  independence  into  lifting  his  hand 
toward  his  hat  with  a  servile  intent,  which 
he  checked  in  time  to  save  his  self-respect. 
The  "made  in  England"  traveller  turned 
toward  the  house. 

Mrs.  Teddy  made  a  queer  little  noise  in 
her  throat,  and  clutched  her  husband's  arm 
despairingly. 


A  Visiting  Peer  101 

"  It's— Oh,  Teddy,  it  can't  be— yes,  I  believe 
—Teddy,  it  is  Lord  Cheltenham  ! " 

Mr.  Howison  looked  from  his  wife  to  the 
approaching  guest  and  back  again. 

"Yep,"  he  admitted  weakly. 

"And  no  cook! — and  Saturday! — and  we 
told  him  to  come  at  any  time  ! — and  he  gave  us 
such  a  gorgeous  time  at  Cheltenham  House  !— 
and  he's  used  to  servants  just  heaped  up  in  all 
the  corners." 

Her  voice  was  growing  smaller  and  smaller, 
as  the  enormity  of  the  situation  sank  into  her 
soul. 

"What  will  we  do?"  she  wailed  pianissimo. 

"Buck  up,"  suggested  Teddy  with  a  gleam 
of  masculine  sanity. 

"  Yes,  of  course.  He  was  so  good  to  us  over 
there.  He'd  be  dreadfully  cut  up  if  he  knew 
he  had  come  at  such  an  inconvenient  time. 
Don't  tell  him,  Teddy.  We'll  manage  some 
way — but  don't  begin  lying  until  you  have 
to,  Teddy.  We  must  figure  out  something 
we  can  stick  to  consistently.  I'm  not  a  bit 
good  at  improvising.  Isn't  it  positively  sick 
ening?" 

"Damn  the  luck!"  murmured  Mr.  Howison 
firmly. 

"Thank  you  so  much,  darling. — Why,  Lord 


102  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

Cheltenham !  This  is  a  delightful  surprise. 
How  lovely  of  you  ! " 

She  was  on  the  steps  now,  with  both  hands 
impulsively  outstretched  and  her  pretty  face 
aglow  with  glad  welcome.  Behind  her  loomed 
Teddy,  cordiality  written  large  upon  him. 

"This  is  what  I  call  friendly,  Cheltenham. 
Let  me  take  those  grips.  When  did  you  land  ? 
This  morning?  And  you  came  right  down  to 
us?  Well,  that  was  exactly  the  thing  to  do, 
and  I  tell  you  we  appreciate  it." 

The  Peer's  ruddy  face  was  wreathed  in 
smiles. 

"  I  knew  you  meant  it,  when  you  told  me  to 
come  any  time,  without  warning.  Wouldn't 
dare  take  that  at  its  face  value  with  every 
friend,  old  man.  Mrs.  Howison,  it's  absurd 
for  a  young  thing  like  you  to  pretend  to  be  a 
matron  and  housewife.  Pretty  place  you've 
got  here !  Don't  bother  with  those  bags, 
Howison." 

"There  isn't  a  man-servant  on  the  place," 
announced  his  host  joyously.  "This  is  the 
land  of  democratic  simplicity,  Cheltenham. 
You'll  have  to  get  used  to  it.  I'll  just  take 
these  things  to  your  room.  You'll  want  to  tub 
and  freshen  up  a  bit  after  this  hot  day  in  town." 

Lord  Cheltenham  followed  him  up  the  stairs. 


A  Visiting  Peer  103 

Five  minutes  later,  Howison  sought  his 
wife,  and  found  her  sitting  on  the  floor  before 
the  open  refrigerator. 

She  waved  a  limp  chicken  at  him  as  he  ap 
peared. 

"We'll  have  to  have  our  Sunday  dinner  to 
night.  You  can  telephone  and  have  things  for 
Sunday  brought  over  this  evening — if  Jones 
has  anything  left,  at  this  time  Saturday  night. 
If  we  were  living  in  town  now  we  could " 

"Why,  Katherine!" 

Her  husband's  tone  was  steeped  in  reproach, 
but  his  eyes  grinned.  Mrs.  Howison's  dimples 
responded  to  the  grin. 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  don't  make  me  laugh,  or 
I'll  cry.  Get  Nell  on  the  'phone,  that's  a 
duck.  She  simply  must  help  me  out  of  this. 
What's  the  use  of  having  a  sister  in  town,  if 
she  doesn't  understand  first  aid  to  the  injured  ? " 

"Here's  Nell,',  called  Howison,  after  an 
interval  in  which  his  wife  did  record-breaking 
stunts  in  the  line  of  dinner  preparation.  She 
dropped  the  can-opener  and  hurried  to  the 
telephone. 

"  That  you,  Nell  ?  Both  maids  have  left.— 
Yes,  this  morning. — Awful?  Well,  you  don't 
know  how  awful  it  really  is.  Lord  Cheltenham's 
here — Yes,  honestly — came  fifteen  minutes  ago. 


104  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

—I  don't  know,  a  week,  probably. — Get  dinner 
myself?  There's  nothing  else  to  do. — I  shan't 
tell  him  the  cook's  gone.  I'll  just  mention  that 
the  waitress  has  gone  home  ill,  and  laugh  it  off, 
—What? — Yes,  I'll  wait  on  the  table  myself, 
and  make  a  sort  of  a  lark  of  it,  you  know.  I'm 
going  to  wear  that,  new  pink  frock. — Ruin  it  ? 
Maybe  I  will,  but  it  will  help  some.  He  won't 
notice  the  dinner  so  much.  The  skirt  does 
hang  like  a  dream,  you  know.  I'll  have  to  be 
trailing  back  and  forth  to  the  kitchen  and  that 
sash  and  back  drapery  will  leave  a  good  im 
pression  behind  me  every  time  I  disappear. — 
What? — Why,  of  course,  the  kitchen  floor  is 
dirty,  but  one  has  to  make  sacrifices  in  an 
emergency  like  this. 

"Now  listen.  I  want  you  to  send  me  two 
maids  on  the  early  train  to-morrow — Saturday 
night?  Yes,  I  know  that.  What's  that? 
Why,  of  course,  the  intelligence  offices  are 
closed  by  this  time.  That  doesn't  make  any 
difference.  I  have  to  have  maids. 

"Get  them  of  the  caterer  or  the  Salvation 
Army,  or  somebody.  I  don't  care  anything 
about  their  references  or  their  morals.  Just 
somebody  for  a  day  or  two,  until  I  can  find 
regular  ones.  Pay  anything  for  them. 

"You  can't  ? — I  could  if  I  were  there. — Well, 


A  Visiting  Peer  105 

then  send  me  yours. — Cool?  No,  I'm  not  cool; 
I  wish  I  were.  You  can  get  along  without 
them.  You  haven't  a  live  lord  on  your  hands. 
Tom  and  you  can  go  to  the  hotel,  and  we'll  pay 
your  bill. — Won't  come  ?  Oh,  yes,  they  will  come 
if  you  offer  them  enough. — That's  a  dear. 
You  fix  it  with  them.  I'll  do  as  much  for  you 
some  day. — There  won't  be  any  mistake?— 
Take  them  and  put  them  on  the  train,  Nell. 
They  might  escape  at  the  last  moment. — The 
six-thirty  train. — Yes,  it  is  a  little  early,  but 
these  summer  mornings  are  so  beautiful— 

"And  say,  Nell,  send  along  anything  nice  you 
happen  to  have  in  the  house. — Yes,  that  would 
be  lovely.  We  haven't  a  scrap  of  cake. — 
What's  that  ?  That  fine  old  Burgundy  ?  Tell 
Tom  he's  a  cherub.  We'll  bring  Lord  Chelten 
ham  up  and  have  a  dinner  and  roof -garden 
spree  for  you  all— 

"So  much  obliged.  Don't  let  anything 
happen.  Good-bye." 

"All  right,  is  it?"  Howison  asked  anxiously. 

"  I  guess  so.  Nell  didn't  seem  as  altruistic 
as  she  might  have  been.  She  wouldn't  have 
given  in  for  anything  less  than  a  Peer.  Do  go 
and  lie  in  wait  for  that  Peer,  Teddy,  and  take 
him  off  somewhere. — Walk  him  over  to  the 
links.  If  they  only  had  a  good  club-house  and 


io6  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

restaurant,  wouldn't  it  be  a  help  ?  It's  foolish 
to  pick  out  a  suburb  where  there  isn't  a  sure- 
enough  country  club  ! " 

As  Howison  and  the  Peer  started  down  the 
walk,  Mrs.  Howison  called  her  husband  back. 

"  Be  awfully  late  to  dinner,  Teddy,  and  say 
something  about  it  on  the  wray  home.  That 
will  give  me  time  to  get  things  ready  and  dress, 
and  I'll  be  amiable  and  forgiving  when  you 
apologise." 

"Shade  of  Sapphira!"  murmured  Howison — 
but  he  kissed  her. 

Lord  Cheltenham  saw  the  golf  links  thorough 
ly.  His  host  didn't  spare  him  a  single  bunker. 
They  even  played  a  hole  or  two  before  the 
shadows  grew  too  long,  and  after  that  they 
joined  fellow  golfers  on  the  small  veranda  of  the 
diminutive  club-house  and  imbibed  large  quan 
tities  of  a  refreshment  that  didn't  require  the 
services  of  a  chef.  Finally  Lord  Cheltenham 
began  to  lose  his  self-confidence. 

"I  say,  Howison,  do  you  think  all  this 
mixing  is  quite  wise  in  a  pilgrim  and  a  stranger  ? 
They're  good,  you  know,  but  they're  devilish 
complicated." 

And  Howison,  having  secretly  consulted  his 
watch  and  seen  that  its  hands  pointed  to 
eight -ten,  let  the  Peer  off. 


A  Visiting  Peer  107 

"We'd  better  be  hiking  along,  I  guess,"  he 
said.  Then,  openly  looking  at  his  watch,  he 
started  violently. 

"  By  Jove  !  It's  after  eight,  and  dinner  was 
at  seven.  We  must  hustle." 

"Haven't  had  your  dinner  yet?"  chorused 
the  fellow  golfers.  "Lucky  you  have  a  good- 
natured  wife,  Howison,"  added  one  of  the 
group. 

"Oh,  she'll  be  all  right!"  Howison  asserted 
with  fine  nonchalance,  "but  the  dinner  may 
have  gone  off  a  peg  or  two.  Come  on,  Chelten 
ham." 

They  sprinted  homeward.  Mrs.  Teddy,  having 
seen  them  afar  off  through  the  kitchen  window, 
rushed  to  the  veranda  and  rose  indolently 
from  the  hammock  to  greet  them,  with  gay 
reproach,  when  they  appeared. 

Lord  Cheltenham  eyed  the  pink  frock  and 
the  face  above  it  and,  out  of  the  fulness  of  much 
"mixing"  and  of  aesthetic  appreciation,  heaved 
a  mighty  sigh  of  content. 

"I  tell  you  this  is  living,"  he  said,  with  warm 
approbation.  "Simple,  natural,  charming,  no 
formality  and  fuss  and  feathers — no  dinner  dress 
for  the  men  of  the  house — no  row  when  a 
fellow's  an  hour  late.  My  chef  would  give 
notice  if  I'd  serve  him  such  a  trick." 


io8  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

"Ours  doesn't  mind,"  said  Howison. 

"  She  must  be  exceptional." 

"She  is."  Howison's  tone  was  saturated 
with  conviction. 

Some  are  born  cooks,  some  achieve  cookery, 
and  some  have  cookery  thrust  upon  them. 
The  wife  of  a  suburbanite  comes  under  the  last 
head,  but  there  are  different  ways  of  bearing 
the  cross.  Mrs.  Teddy  had  made  the  most  of 
her  opportunities.  She  could  cook. 

The  dinner  was  an  unqualified  success,  from 
the  strawberries  nestling  in  their  own  green 
leaves  on  a  mound  of  cracked  ice,  to  the 
superfine  Turkish  coffee.  The  Sauterne  cup 
and  the  pink  gown  would  have  softened  the 
heart  of  the  most  savage  critic,  and  Lord 
Cheltenham  was  not  disposed  to  criticise.  He 
watched  Mrs.  Teddy  flitting  gaily  about  the 
room  and  making  merry  over  the  defection  of 
the  waitress.  He  followed  with  his  eyes  the 
last  flutter  of  the  floating  gauze  sash  each  time 
it  disappeared  into  the  butler's  pantry.  He 
noted  the  fashion  in  which  the  pretty  waitress 
looked  down  at  Howison  as  she  waited  for 
him  to  take  the  dish  she  offered,  and  he  thought 
of  the  lonely  formal  dinners  at  Cheltenham 
House. 

He  grew  mellower  and  mellower,  more  and 


A  Visiting  Peer  109 

more  genial,  more  and  more  approving.  He 
told  stories  ;  he  cracked  jokes  ;  he  announced 
disloyally  that  American  women  and  American 
cooks  were  far  superior  to  the  English  articles. 

If  there  had  been  one  more  course  he  would 
have  sung,  but  at  half -past  ten  Mrs.  Teddy 
suggested  adjournment  to  the  veranda  and 
served  coffee  there. 

"You  are  to  be  congratulated  upon  not 
losing  your  cook  as  well  as  your  waitress,"  said 
the  well-fed  and  enthusiastic  Peer.  "That 
would  have  been  a  loss.  Don't  let  anything 
happen  to  the  cook,  old  man." 

"Heaven  forbid,"  said  Howison  fervently. 

Mrs.  Teddy  laughed,  but  when  one  laughs  as 
charmingly  as  Mrs.  Teddy,  it  isn't  necessary 
to  have  an  excuse  for  doing  it. 

They  sat  upon  the  veranda,  hour  after  hour, 
while  the  men  smoked  a  great  deal  and  talked 
a  little,  and  the  woman  talked  a  great  deal  and 
smoked  not  at  all. 

Lord  Cheltenham  was  happy.  He  had  dined 
to  his  liking;  he  admired  pretty  and  viva 
cious  women  in  general  and  Mrs.  Teddy  in 
particular;  he  found  Howison  a  good  fellow, 
with  an  unexceptionable  taste  in  cigars ;  he 
was  wide  awake  and  contented.  Why  go 
to  bed? 


no  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

And  Mrs.  Teddy,  with  a  nightmare  vision  of 
innumerable  dirty  dishes  piled  higgledy-piggledy 
into  a  chaotic  kitchen,  and  of  an  uncleared 
dining-room  table  haunting  her,  and  with  the 
possibility  of  a  servantless  to-morrow  looming 
before  her,  was  gay,  amusing,  insouciante,  to 
the  edification  of  her  admiring  husband,  who 
puffed  at  his  cigar  and  mentally  voted  her  a 
dead -game  sport. 

At  two  o'clock  a  glimmering  idea  that  bed 
time  was  approaching  filtered  through  the 
Englishman's  brain. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  been  keeping  you  up,"  he 
said,  without  sign  of  remorse.  "It  must  be 
getting  on,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Teddy  rose,  but  without  suspicious 
alacrity. 

"  Yes,  I  dare  say  you  are  fagged  after  a  long 
day  of  knocking  about.  Thoughtless  of  us  to 
let  you  sit  up,  but  it  is  so  jolly  to  be  visiting 
with  you  again." 

Her  husband  feared  she  was  overdoing  it. 
The  Peer  looked  as  though  he  would  linger 
longer  if  urged. 

"I'll  take  Cheltenham  up,  my  dear.  I 
suppose  the  room  is  all  right." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  think  you'll  find  everything  quite 
right."  " 


A  Visiting  Peer  m 

Mrs.  Teddy  spoke  with  a  detached  air,  as 
though  she  herself  hadn't  gone  over  the  room 
with  a  microscope  before  dinner  and  made 
sure  that  everything  was  in  order. 

When  Howison  joined  her  in  the  kitchen,  at 
2:15,  he  apologised  for  delay. 

"Thought  I'd  better  stay  until  he  was  far 
enough  along  toward  bed  so  that  he'd  be  safe 
for  the  night.  Wait  till  I  get  my  coat  off  and 
my  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  I'll  help." 

Until  four  o'clock  a  young  woman  in  a  white 
wrapper  and  a  young  man  in  shirt -sleeves 
toiled  and  perspired  in  comparative  silence. 
Mrs.  Teddy  had  run  down.  Howison  was 
walking  in  his  sleep. 

"I  didn't  know  there  were  so  many  dishes  in 
the  world,"  sighed  Mrs.  Teddy,  as  she  wearily 
stacked  the  last  saucer. 

Howison  sat  down  on  the  table  and  wiped 
his  face  with  a  dish-towel. 

"Hospitality  is  a  gracious  thing,"  he  said  in 
honeyed  tones.  "If  I  live  to  fulfil  my  one 
ambition,  I'll  entertain  the  whole  House  of 
Lords.  It's  a  great  thing  to  have  a  visit  from 
a  peer,  Katherine." 

"  You  may  call  this  a  visit — I  call  it  a  visita 
tion!" 

Howison  conceded  her  point. 


ii2  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

"Suppose  we  now  go  and  seek  a  little  well- 
earned  repose,"  he  urged. 

"  I've  got  to  set  the  table  and  get  everything 
ready  for  breakfast.  There's  no  telling  whether 
those  maids  of  Nell's  will  come." 

Teddy  threw  the  dish-cloth  defiantly  at  the 
face  of  the  kitchen  clock. 

"  I  will  never  desert  Mrs.  Micawber.  Lead 
on." 

He  looked  at  the  tired-faced,  drabbled  little 
woman  in  the  white  wrapper,  and  his  attempt 
at  hilarity  fell  through. 

"It's  a  beastly  shame,  sweetheart.  I'm 
awfully  sorry.  Wish  the  duffer  had  sunk  in 
the  Atlantic  on  his  way  over!  It's  dreadfully 
hard  on  you,  and  I— 

Mrs.  Teddy  turned  upon  him  fiercely. 

"Teddy  Howison,  don't  you  dare  to  be  nice 
to  me  or  I'll  howl!"  But  when  they  finally 
trailed  wearily  up  the  front  stairs,  his  arm  was 
around  her  and  she  was  not  howling. 

At  the  head  of  the  stairs  they  paused,  and 
Mrs.  Teddy  laid  her  finger  warningly  upon  her 
lips. 

"  He  might  think  we  were  burglars  and  get 
up,"  she  whispered. 

They  glanced  at  the  guest's  closed  door. 

Two  pairs  of  sleepy  eyes  opened  wide,  two 


A  Visiting  Peer  113 

mouths  dropped  open  as  though  moved  by  one 
spring.  Mrs.  Teddy  gave  a  strangled  gurgle 
of  emotion  and  buried  her  face  upon  her 
husband's  shoulder.  Howison  stood  for  a 
moment  staring  blankly  at  the  four  pairs  of 
shoes,  arranged  in  a  neat  row,  outside  of  Lord 
Cheltenham's  door. 

Then  he,  too,  was  overcome  by  emotion. 
He  dropped  down  upon  the  top  step  of  the 
stairs  and  swore  softly,  fluently,  while  Mrs. 
Teddy  had  violent  but  comparatively  noiseless 
hysterics  in  his  arms. 

Later  he  retreated  to  the  bath-room  and 
polished  the  shoes,  but  his  sense  of  humour  had 
reached  the  limit  of  its  elasticity,  and  he  could 
not  sympathise  with  his  wife's  continued  and 
unseemly  mirth. 

When  Lord  Cheltenham,  arrayed  in  white 
ducks,  irreproachably  shod,  satisfied  with  life, 
enraptured  with  America,  strolled  down  stairs, 
at  nine-thirty,  Sunday  morning,  his  hostess, 
all  in  crisp  white  and  with  a  fresh  rose  tucked 
into  her  belt,  was  lounging  in  a  big  veranda 
chair,  and  rose  to  greet  him.  There  were  the 
faintest  of  shadows  under  her  eyes,  but  her 
vivacity  and  cordiality  were  unimpaired. 

"Teddy's  late,"  she  said  laughingly.  "He's 
a  terrible  sluggard — but  here  he  comes." 


H4  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

Howison  was  amiable,  but  his  general  ap 
pearance  suggested  that  the  world  was  too 
much  with  him. 

"  Look  a  trifle  seedy,  old  fellow,"  commented 
the  Peer.  "Now,  seven  hours'  sleep  ought  to 
be  enough  for  any  man," 

"Yes,  it  ought,"  agreed  his  host,  eyeing  with 
a  certain  chastened  pride  the  very  superior 
polish  upon  his  guest's  russet  shoes. 

A  trim  maid  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"Breakfast  is  served,  Madam." 

The  Peer  screwed  his  monocle  into  his  eye. 

"  You  have  a  new  waitress  ? " 

"We  have,"  said  Mrs.  Teddy. 

There  was  a  jubilate  in  her  tone. 


THE  VANISHING   BOARDER 


THE  VANISHING   BOARDER 

NOW  am   I   in  Arden.     When   I  was  at 
home,  I  was  in  a  better  place." 
Nancy   made  the    quotation  woefully 
and  emphasised  it  by  a  vicious  kick  at  a  fat 
toadstool. 

Priscilla  nodded  understanding. 

"Yes,  it  is  slow,  isn't  it?" 

"Slow?"  Nancy's  tone  held  a  world  of 
comment.  "  Slow !  Why,  beside  this  sort  of 
thing,  solitary  confinement  in  a  dungeon  keep 
is  one  mad  round  of  gaiety  and  dissipation. 
And  yet  there  are  beings  who  put  in  lifetimes 
in  the  country !" 

"But  I  thought  you  liked  the  country." 

"  Of  course  I  like  the  country — in  its  proper 
place.  The  country  is  all  very  well,  as  a 
stage-setting.  The  very  best  times  of  my 
life  have  been  beautifully  bucolic — but  what's 
the  use  of  a  stage-setting  without  any  dramatis 
persona  ?  What 's  the  country  good  for  without 
a  man?" 

Priscilla  assumed  an  expression  of  pained 
protest,  though  her  eyes  twinkled. 

117 


n8  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

"  Shocking,  my  dear,  shocking  !  Sighing  for 
men,  when  you  have  the  murmuring  rills  and 
carolling  birds  and  spreading  oaks — 

"Spreading  fiddlesticks!"  interrupted  Nancy 
rudely,  and  then  both  girls  laughed  and  moved 
so  that  the  spreading  oak  would  more  effectually 
screen  them  from  the  sun. 

"Besides,  I'm  not  sighing  for  men,"  Nancy 
went  on.  "I'm  only  wishing  for  a  man — just 
one  ordinary  man,  even  a  quality  below  ordinary 
— one  little,  little  man.  Of  course,  I'd  rather 
have  a  big  one,  but  I'd  accept  even  a  little  one 
with  effusive  thanks." 

Priscilla  looked  at  her  chum,  who  was  lying 
stretched  out  upon  the  moss,  her  hands  under 
her  head,  her  white  frock  cool  against  the  deep 
green  and  clinging  lovingly  to  the  slender 
figure.  The  sunlight  sifted  through  the  leaves 
playing  in  her  warm  brown  hair  and  casting 
soft,  flickering  shadows  over  a  charming  muti 
nous  face,  in  which  dimples  and  smiles  lurked 
visibly  amid  the  whimsical  petulance. 

"I  can  think  of  a  large  group  of  men  of 
assorted  sizes,  any  one  of  whom  would  scramble 
here,  if  you'd  agree  to  accept  him,  even  without 
effusiveness." 

Nancy  shook  her  head. 

"I'm  not  offering  a  permanency,  my  dear, 


The  Vanishing  Boarder  119 

and  what  would  we  do  with  one  of  the  collection 
if  he  came?  Aunt  Hannah  wouldn't  allow 
him  on  the  place,  and  there's  no  hotel  within 
miles.  I  do  think  Aunt  Hannah  might  at 
least  have  selected  a  young  farmer  and  'hand' 
to  run  the  farm !  She's  collected  a  valuable 
group  of  antiques  now,  hasn't  she?  I've  al 
ways  been  given  to  understand  that  there  were 
stalwart,  handsome  sons  of  Anak  on  farms. 
Jeremiah  and  Hiram  are  a  fine  Anaky  couple  !" 

"Nancy,  you  were  crazy  to  come.  You 
said  you  wanted  to  get  away  from  people  and 
be  in  a  place  where  it  would  be  green  and  quiet, 
and  where  you  could  loaf  and  invite  your 
soul." 

"  Well,  so  I  did ;  but  my  soul  has  sent  regrets, 
and  that  changes  my  point  of  view.  What  I 
yearn  for  is  the  beach  at  Coney  Island.  There 
are  more  fellow  beings — of  a  kind — to 
the  square  inch  there,  than  in  any  other 
place  I  can  think  of.  And  to  think  I  let 
you  in  for  this,  Pris.  You  could  have  gone 
to  Kennebunk  for  this  month,  and  I 
persuaded  you  into  coming  to  Aunt  Hannah's 
with  me." 

"Oh!  that's  all  right— I  quite  like  it," 
averred  Priscilla  loyally.  "I'd  rather  be  with 
you  here  than  at  Kennebunk  without  you." 


120  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

"And  how  could  I  know  she  was  a  fossilised 
dragon — and  that  the  lovely  farm  was  a 
thousand  miles  from  nowhere?  Daddy  hadn't 
seen  her  in  forty  years,  and  she  wrote  an 
awfully  nice  old-fashioned  letter,  and  I  sort  of 
pictured  a  lavender  silk,  old  mahogany,  spinet, 
Canton  china  situation.  My  literary  sense 
will  be  the  death  of  me  yet.  I  presented  Aunt 
Hannah  with  a  cherished  romance  and  a 
gentle,  sentimental  spinsterhood — and  here 
she's  a  whale-bone  and  raw-hide  Yankee 
manager,  who  hates  men  worse  than  she  hates 
anything  except  dust  and  wastefulness !  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  I  believe  she  thinks  men  were 
just  a  bit  of  dusty  wastefulness  on  the  part  of 
the  Almighty." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Priscilla  soothingly. 
"We'll  squirm  through  July  and  escape  by 
the  first  of  August." 

"  Miss  Reynolds  !     Miss  Reynolds  ! " 

A  high,  piercing  voice,  with  a  fine  nasal 
twang,  came  shrilly  through  the  quiet  sun- 
steeped  air. 

Nancy  sat  up  suddenly. 

"There's  the  light-footed  Maria.  What  do 
you  suppose  she  wants  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  Miss  Reynolds!" 

"Here,  Maria." 


The  Vanishing  Boarder  121 

Nancy  was  on  her  feet  now,  tall,  slim,  pretty, 
expectant. 

A  spindling,  slab-sided  girl,  in  a  shapeless 
brown  gingham  frock,  plunged  heavily  through 
the  willows  and  paused  panting  on  the  other 
side  of  the  stream  near  which  the  girls  were 
standing. 

"Please,  Miss,  your  aunt's  had  a  telegraph. 
She's  that  stirred  up  she  broke  the  blue-and- 
white  teapot.  Her  niece,  Molly,  up  at  Spring- 
town,  she's  goin'  to  marry  somebody,  or 
somethin',  and  your  aunt,  she's  goin'  right  up 
to  stop  it.  She's  puttin'  on  her  black  alpaca, 
and  Hiram,  he's  gettin'  up  a  horse,  and  she's 
goin'  on  that  two-fifty  train.  She  wants  you 
to  come  in  right  away,  so  she  can  tell  you  what 
to  do  over  Sunday.  She  won't  be  back  till 
Monday  afternoon,  anyhow." 

Maria  stopped  for  breath. 

"Hooray  for  Molly!"  murmured  Nancy,  as 
she  and  Priscilla  made  their  way  gingerly 
across  the  stepping-stones. 

"Do  you  know  her?" 

"  Never  heard  of  her.  You  see  Aunt  Hannah 
isn't  my  aunt — is  no  relation  at  all.  Father's 
brother  married  her  adopted  sister.  They  do 
say  Aunt  Hannah  would  have  married  father, 
if  he  hadn't  been  a  sprinter.  There 'd  be 


122  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

nothing  for  it  but  flight,  if  she  once  made  up 
her  mind." 

The  two  girls  hurried  across  the  meadow, 
through  the  orchard,  and  up  to  the  rambling 
white  house,  before  whose  box-stoop  stood 
two  huge  sentinel  elms.  On  the  stoop,  framed 
by  the  straight  trunks  of  the  giant  trees,  was 
a  gaunt,  angular  figure  in  a  black  frock  and 
bonnet  of  a  year  long  dead. 

A  horse,  that  in  some  vague  way  resembled 
the  woman,  and  was  harnessed  to  a  light 
spring- wagon,  waited  at  the  side  of  the  house, 
and  an  elderly,  hollow-chested,  loose-jointed 
man,  in  blue  jean  and  a  torn  straw-hat,  held 
the  reins. 

"Girls,  I've  had  bad  news!" 

Miss  Martin's  voice  was  crisp — her  tone  was 
grim. 

"I'm  going  away  for  three  days,  and  you'll 
have  to  get  along  somehow.  I've  told  Maria 
what  to  have  for  meals,  and  written  it  down, 
so  you'll  see  she  does  as  I  told  her.  The  paper 
is  in  the  first  right-hand  pigeon-hole  of  the 
desk  in  the  sitting-room. 

"I've  put  away  the  best  china.  That  girl 
would  be  sure  to  break  things,  if  I  wasn't 
around  with  my  eye  on  her.  Be  careful  about 
the  lamps,  and  don't  forget  to  bolt  the  doors. 


The  Vanishing  Boarder  123 

Don't  you  give  Hiram  any  victuals,  Maria 
Elkins.  He's  engaged  to  board  at  the  farm 
house  with  Jeremiah's  folks,  and  I  don't 
'low  to  feed  him. 

"I'm  sorry  I  have  to  go  off,  but  there  isn't 
any  time  to  lose.  I  guess  I'll  see  whether  a 
niece  of  mine's  going  to  marry  an  Irish  papist ! 

"Won't  listen  to  her  folks?  Well,  she'll 
listen  to  me  !  So '11  he  ! 

"I'll  be  back  Monday  afternoon  at  five. 
Good-bye. 

"Now,  Hiram,  you  make  that  mare  go  as  if 
she  weren't  ploughing  by  the  day  !" 

The  wagon  rattled  down  the  drive. 

"  Maria,  don't  you  forget  to  fold  the  counter 
panes,  and  don't  talk  to  peddlers." 

The  parting  admonitions  were  wafted  back 
upon  the  summer  breeze. 

Nancy  sat  down  limply  upon  the  stoop  and 
mopped  her  brow. 

"Wish  I  could  telegraph  Molly,"  she  said 
fervently.  "Think  of  having  an  Irish  papist 
to  run  away  with !  I'd  welcome  a  Hottentot 
Swedenborgian ! ' ' 

"  It's  rather  jolly  being  left  alone,"  suggested 
Priscilla. 

"  Well,  rather.  Next  to  having  an  agreeable 
man  on  the  place,  not  having  Aunt  Hannah  is 


124  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

the   most   consolatory   thing   I   can   think  of. 
Maria,  what's  that  that  smells  so  good?" 

"  Baking — berry  pies  and  doughnuts  and 
bread  and  coffee-cake.  There's  floating-island 
made,  too — and  baked  beans,  and  Miss  Martin, 
she  'lowed  she'd  have  a  ham  cooked  to-morrow. 
There's  fried  chicken  for  supper." 

"  I  will  say  for  Aunt  Hannah  that  she  doesn't 
starve  us, "  Nancy  admitted  generously.  "  Come 
on,  Pris,  let's  go  up  to  the  falls.  I  left  a  book 
up  there  this  morning." 

The  two  girls  followed  the  winding  garrulous 
brook  past  the  willow-fringed  meadows,  into 
the  woods,  where  it  swirled  noisily  around 
great  moss-covered  boulders,  and  foamed  over 
miniature  rapids,  dropping  occasionally  into 
silence  in  deep  brown-hearted  pools  in  the 
shelter  of  the  rocks  or  fallen  logs,  or  in  the 
curves  of  shelving  banks.  Rank  fern  and 
damp,  sweet-smelling  herbs  grew  thickly  along 
the  path,  the  sunlight  fell  green-golden  through 
the  leaves,  and  warmed  the  velvety  mosses  into 
sudden  flashes  of  vivid  colour.  The  splash 
and  gurgle  and  ripple  of  the  running  water  were 
light-hearted  wood  voices. 

Nancy  stopped  for  a  moment  to  draw  a  long 
breath  of  content. 

"After  all,"  she  admitted,  spreading  out  her 


The  Vanishing  Boarder  125 

hands  in  a  little  inclusive  gesture,  "this  isn't 
bad.  There  are  moments  when  I  can  conceive 
of  an  Adamless  Eden,  but  I  could  never  con 
sider  giving  up  the  serpent.  Now,  a  man 
would  probably  see  in  the  brook  only  a  trout 
stream.  He'd  fish  and  fish,  and  be  absolutely 
unappreciative  of  the  aesthetic  side  of  nature. 
A  man " 

Her  harangue  broke  off  short  with  a  snap. 
She  clutched  her  comrade's  arm. 

"There  is  one!" 

"A  tramp!"  gasped  Priscilla  tremulously. 

"Tramp,  indeed!  Those  are  city-built 
knickers,  Priscilla  Pilsbury.  When  I  get  back 
to  the  house,  I  shall  pour  a  libation  of  elder 
berry  wine  to  all  the  gods." 

"Let's  go  back  now." 

Priscilla  was  distinctly  uneasy,  but  Nancy 
was  cast  in  more  heroic  mould. 

"  Go  back  now  !  Perish  the  thought !  Going 
forward  is  just  beginning  to  be  interesting. 
He's  been  fishing.  Tramps  don't  carry  fishing- 
tackle  and  read  books  bound  in  limp  leather. 
I  wonder  if  his  face  matches  his  back.  Dread 
fully  long  back — isn't  it? — stretched  out  on 
the  bank  that  way.  Come  on,  Honey.  It's 
time  for  us  to  be  discovered." 

She  went  swiftly  forward,  her  face  as  guile- 


126  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

less  as  a  baby's,  serene  unconsciousness  of  the 
stranger's  presence  writ  large  upon  her. 

The  young  man  heard  the  crackle  of  twigs, 
lazily  lifted  his  chin  from  his  hands  and  his 
eyes  from  his  book,  and,  for  a  second  lay  there, 
staring  in  blank  surprise  at  the  apparition 
moving  toward  him.  Then  he  scrambled  hastily 
to  his  feet,  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and 
his  cap  from  his  head,  and  confronted  Nancy. 

Her  startled -fawn  pose  was  a  triumph.  She 
was  surprised,  tremendously  surprised.  Any 
one  could  have  seen  that,  but  she  rallied  with 
gentle  dignity. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  stammered  the  Man- 
Body.  "I'm  afraid  I  frightened  you." 

Nancy  blushed.  She  always  blushes  when 
she  is  interested  in  a  role.  It  doesn't  mean 
anything,  but  it  is  most  effective. 

"Oh!  it's  quite  all  right,"  she  said  sweetly. 
"  Of  course,  it  did  startle  me.  We  are  so  used 
to  having  these  woods  all  to  ourselves  that  we 
had  forgotten  there  were  other  folk  in  the 
world." 

"Then  I'm  trespassing.  It's  my  normal 
state  nowadays,  but  there's  no  way  of  knowing, 
and  the  stream  was  an  alluring  proposition  for 
a  fisherman.  I'm  awfully  sorry.  You  don't 
feel  faint  or  anything,  do  you?" 


The  Vanishing  Boarder  127 

Nancy  didn't  feel  faint. 

Priscilla  had  come  up,  and  was  eyeing  the 
other  young  woman  with  an  expression  'twixt 
severity  and  apprehension.  She  is  never  quite 
sure  what  Nancy  will  do  next. 

The  stranger  took  the  initiative.  He  was 
extremely  good  to  look  at.  Even  Priscilla 
admitted  that.  The  corduroys  were  worn 
and  shabby,  the  soft  felt  hat  was  battered,  but 
the  man  was  evidently  a  gentleman,  and  the 
frank  boyishness  and  good  nature  in  the 
handsome  sun-browned  face  were  disarming. 

"I  wonder  if  you'd  mind  telling  me,"  the 
eyes  were  still  fixed  upon  Nancy's  blushes  and 
a  faint  touch  of  dull  red  had  crept  into  his  own 
tanned  cheeks.  "You  see,  I'm  a  stranger 
here.  I've  been  tramping,  fishing,  and  sketch 
ing  and  loafing  for  three  weeks,  and  I  seemed 
to  have  missed  my  road  to-day.  I  wonder  if 
you'd  mind  telling  me  how  far  I  am  from 
Millville?" 

"Twenty  miles,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Oh,  I  say,  I  have  made  a  mess  of  it !  I  was 
to  put  up  there  and  take  a  bit  of  a  rest  on  Sun 
day.  Might  I  trouble  you  to  tell  me  what  is 
the  nearest  town?" 

"Martin  Centre  is  our  post-office." 

Priscilla    noted    a  'gleam   of   inspiration   in 


128  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

her  chum's  face,  and  her  apprehension 
deepened. 

"Is  it  far  from  here  ? " 

Nancy  considered. 

"About  ten  miles." 

She  had  generously  presented  four  miles  to 
the  road  between  the  farm  and  the  village,  but 
Priscilla  held  her  peace. 

"Really!  Well,  that's  rather  a  pull  for  a 
tired  man.  Is  there  a  hotel  at  Martin  Centre  ? " 

Nancy  shook  her  head. 

"It's  a  shame  to  bother  you,  I'm  imposing 
on  your  kindness,  but  do  you  know  whether 
there's  any  sort  of  a  farmhouse  in  the  neigh 
bourhood  where  they  might  put  me  up  over 
night,  or  over  Sunday?  I'm  dead  tired,  and 
I'd  like  to  fish  this  brook,  if  I  could  get  per 
mission." 

High  resolve  set  its  seal  upon  Nancy's 
politely  interested  face. 

"We  take  summer  boarders,"  she  said. 
"  Our  room  is  vacant  just  now,  and  if  you  think 
you  can  be  comfortable— 

Priscilla 's  mouth  shut  with  a  snap,  and  some 
inward  spasm  shook  her. 

"Nancy,  don't  you  think '  she  began 

feebly,  but  Nancy  brushed  the  coming  objection 
aside. 


The  Vanishing  Boarder  129 

"We  will  show  you  the  way  to  the  house, 
and  you  can  look  at  the  room,"  she  said  in  a 
businesslike  manner. 

The  incredulous  delight  that  had  surprised 
the  young  man's  mouth  and  eyes  faded  dis 
creetly,  and  he  pulled  himself  together. 

"  My  name  is  Wetherell,"  he  said  courteously. 
"When  I'm  not  a  tramp,  I  am  a  New  York 
lawyer.  It's  awfully  good  of  you  to  be  willing 
to  take  me  in." 

Nancy's  dignity  was  imposing,  though  not 
glacial. 

"This  is  my  cousin,  Miss  Pilsbury.  My 
name  is  Reynolds.  Our  aunt  is  usually 
with  us  to  superintend  things,  but  she 
was  called  away  for  Sunday.  It  is  too 
bad  she  will  not  be  at  home  to  attend  to  your 
comfort." 

A  vision  of  Aunt  Hannah  in  the  role  of 
ministering  angel  plunged  Priscilla  into  a 
violent  fit  of  coughing,  but  Nancy's  serenity 
would  have  put  a  mid-May  morning  to  shame. 

The  three  turned  back  along  the  wood  path, 
Priscilla  leading  the  way.  Her  heart  was  in 
her  throat.  Only  a  sublime  confidence  in 
Nancy's  generalship  kept  her  from  absolute 
panic.  This  prank  was  really  too  mad.  Behind 
her  Nancy  and  the  tramp  chatted  gaily.  Mr. 


130  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

Wetherell,  of  New  York,  was  convinced  of  the 
efficiency  of  his  guardian  angel ;  Nancy  is  never 
so  radiant  as  when  she  is  doing  something 
reprehensible. 

In  the  orchard,  Priscilla  found  a  chance  for 
a  word  in  the  sinner's  ear. 

"  It's  dreadful ! ' '  she  murmured.  "  Honestly, 
Nancy,  it's  too  bad.  Do  get  rid  of  him ! 
Maria  will  tell,  and  your  aunt  will  be  crazy — and 
anyway,  it's  shockingly  improper!" 

"Yes,  isn't  it?"  chuckled  Nancy  appre 
ciatively.  "I  wouldn't  have  missed  it  for 
worlds  !  Don't  worry  about  Maria.  She  adores 
me.  I'm  the  one  love  of  Maria's  life  up  to 
date.  She'll  be  mute  as  a  fish,  and  he'll  go 
Monday  morning,  and  Aunt  Hannah  doesn't 
come  until  Monday  afternoon.  To  think  that 
I  called  country  life  slow  ! ' ' 

The  Tramp  was  installed  in  the  parlour  on 
a  horse-hair  chair,  with  a  much  embarrassed 
Miss  Pilsbury  opposite  him  on  the  slippery  sofa, 
and  Nancy  disappeared  kitchenward. 

After  a  long  ten  minutes  she  reappeared, 
fairly  radiating  good  humour,  and  gave  Pris 
cilla  an  encouraging  nod. 

"The  maid  will  show  you  the  room,  Mr. 
Wetherell,  and  if  you  think  it  will  be  com 
fortable " 


The  Vanishing  Boarder  131 

"A  foregone  conclusion,"  interrupted  the 
Tramp. 

"You  may  take  possession,"  Nancy  went  on. 
"Ask  Maria  for  anything  you  find  wanting.  I 
believe  the  room  is  quite  in  order.  We  have 
supper  at  six-thirty." 

Maria,  looking  like  a  hypnotised  idiot,  ap 
peared  at  the  hall  door,  Mr.  Wetherell  followed 
her  upstairs,  and  Nancy,  subsiding  upon  the 
sofa,  hugged  Priscilla  ecstatically. 

"And  I  only  asked  for  a  little  man!  He's 
six  feet,  if  he's  an  inch,  and  such  a  duck.  Did 
you  notice  his  eyes,  Pris? — and  such  a  jolly 
mouth — and  such  an  appreciative  soul !  Oh, 
this  is  a  good  world." 

"Aunt  Hannah  will  find  out." 

"It  will  be  worth  it — I  intend  to  tell  her 
myself.  Maria  would  be  hung,  drawn  and 
quartered  before  she'd  tell.  She  thinks  it's 
like  a  book." 

"  You're  ruining  her  morals." 

"  Bother  !  It  will  do  her  all  the  good  in  the 
world.  She's  had  a  very  dull-gray  time.  A 
splash  of  purple  will  brighten  up  her  landscape, 
and,  anyway,  my  dear,  you  wouldn't  turn  a 
weary  traveller  away  from  your  door.  Hos 
pitality  is  a  sacred  duty — I  pointed  that  out  to 
Maria.  She's  going  to  bake  biscuit." 


132  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

The  supper  was  an  unqualified  success. 
Nancy  hadn't  resurrected  the  best  china — even 
her  recklessness  had  its  limitations — but  the 
fried  chicken  and  biscuit  and  honey  were  good 
enough  to  give  an  air  even  to  stone  china,  and 
Nancy,  in  a  pink-and-white  organdie  frock, 
poured  tea  in  a  fashion  that  made  any  other 
luxuries  absolutely  superfluous.  The  Boarder 
succumbed  without  a  struggle,  and  Priscilla, 
who  knew  the  symptoms,  resigned  herself  to  a 
lonely  Sabbath. 

"I'll  not  be  dragged  around  with  you,"  she 
announced  later  to  Nancy.  "This  is  your 
party,  and  you  can  manage  it.  I'm  going  to 
read  Cotton  Mather's  sermons.  They're  on 
the  what-not,  and  I've  read  everything  else  in 
the  house." 

She  finally  consented,  under  strong  suasion, 
to  sit  on  the  stoop  for  a  little  while,  before 
taking  to  Mather,  but  she  beat  an  early  retreat 
and  read  in  the  lighted  parlour,  where  a 
murmur  of  conversation  punctuated  with 
laughter  floated  in  to  her  from  the  moonlight 
world  outside. 

At  half-past  nine  Nancy  came  in. 

"Mr.  Wetherell  is  going  to  stay  out  and 
smoke  for  awhile.  He'll  bolt  the  front  door 
when  he  comes  in.  Pris,  you  look  like  a  sulky 


The  Vanishing  Boarder  133 

cherub.  Stop  it  and  come  to  bed.  I'm  tired, 
but  very  happy.  I'm  afraid  the  truly  good 
must  find  life  awfully  dull.  Now,  I  know  this 
isn't  fair  to  Aunt  Hannah,  but  she  has  no  right 
to  be  such  a  cantankerous  crank  that  she 
drives  people  to  desperation.  I'll  tell  her  after 
it's  over,  and  clear  you  and  Maria.  She  can't 
more  than  flay  me  alive,  and  after  all,  there's 
no  real  harm  in  this  affair.  With  you  here, 
it's  proper  enough,  even  if  it  isn't  according 
to  Dame  Grundy,  and  anybody  can  see  at  a 
glance  that  he's  a  gentleman — and  a  charmer. 
He  says  your  profile  is  pure  Greek,  Pris." 

Priscilla  rather  fancies  her  profile,  herself. 
She  relented  slightly,  and  by  the  time  the  two 
had  climbed  the  stairs  together,  harmony 
reigned.  The  Boarder,  smoking  out  under  the 
elm-trees  and  thinking  long  thoughts  about 
golden-brown  hair  and  gray  eyes  and  dimples, 
smiled  sympathetically  as  muffled  bursts  of 
laughter  from  behind  the  curtains  drawn 
across  a  lighted  window  disturbed  the  hush 
of  the  night. 

It  was  a  merry  world.  Even  a  New  York 
lawyer  could  recognise  the  fact. 

Priscilla's  anticipation  of  a  solitary  Sunday 
was  justified  by  the  event.  At  the  breakfast- 
table,  Nancy  assumed  that  the  boarder  would 


134  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

wander  forth  alone  in  quest  of  the  wily  trout, 
and  sweetly  reminded  him  that  dinner  would 
be  ready  at  one. 

Mr.  Wetherell  promptly  developed  deep- 
rooted  objections  to  fishing  on  the  Sabbath, 
and,  of  course,  no  young  woman  of  fine  feeling 
could  urge  a  man  to  set  aside  moral  scruples. 

Nancy  is  a  young  woman  of  fine  feelings. 

Happening  to  mention  casually  that  she 
intended  going  to  the  falls  after  the 
book,  whose  quest  was  abandoned  on  Satur 
day,  she  was  surprised,  but  charmed,  to  find 
the  lawyer's  morals  imposed  no  veto  upon 
Sunday  strolls. 

She  begged  Priscilla  to  join  the  expedition; 
but  her  chum  greeted  the  proposition  with  the 
silent  scorn  it  merited,  and  retreated  to  the 
hammock  and  the  society  of  the  Reverend 
Mather. 

Nancy  stopped  to  speak  to  her  en  route  for 
the  falls,  and  found  her  distinctly  aggrieved. 

"Do  you  like  me  in  this  hat?"  asked  the 
offending  one  blithely.  It  was  a  most  delect 
able  hat,  with  its  wild-rose  wreath  and  its 
flapping,  loose-woven  brim,  through  which 
the  sunlight  sifted;  but  Priscilla  refused  to 
consider  it. 

"I  thought  you  were  going  after  a  book?" 


The  Vanishing  Boarder  135 

she  said  with  a  stern  glance  at  the  volume 
tucked  under  Nancy's  arm. 

"So  I  am,  but  it's  Henry  James.  What 
could  I  do  with  Henry  James  and  another  man 
on  a  summer  morning  like  this?  I'm  taking 
Browning.  You  really  can't  miss  it  on  Brown 
ing.  There  are  critics,  Pris,  who  deny  that 
Browning  is  a  true  poet,  but  nobody  can  deny 
that  he's  a  promoter." 

"Evidently  you  don't  share  Mr.  Wetherell's 
views  on  the  subject  of  Sunday  angling." 

Nancy  looked  at  her  chum  reflectively. 

"Priscilla,  my  love,  a  godlike  calm  goes 
better  with  a  Greek  profile  than  savage  sar 
casm.  If  I  had  that  profile  I'd  live  up 
to  it." 

She  joined  the  waiting  Boarder,  and  Priscilla 
grinned  over  the  Puritan  divine's  most  vivid 
picture  of  damnation.  It  is  hard  to  be  con 
sistently  wroth  with  Nancy. 

From  indications  at  the  noonday  meal, 
Priscilla  judged  that  Browning  and  Nancy  had 
done  their  worst.  She  spent  the  afternoon  in 
the  hammock,  with  her  back  turned  upon  a 
couple  who  read  poetry  under  a  tree  in  the 
orchard. 

Supper  was,  so  to  speak,  a  love-feast.  Even 
Maria  recognised  that  fact,  and  delivered  a 


136  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

heavy  wink  to  Priscilla  from  behind  the  rapt 
Boarder's  shapely  head. 

The  front  stoop  was  "paradise  now"  for 
the  evening,  but  Priscilla  fought  June  bugs 
beside  an  ill-smelling  lamp  in  the  parlour. 

When  Nancy  came  in,  she  looked  thoughtful 
and  was  uncommunicative.  Priscilla  recog 
nised  the  stage,  and  braided  disapproval  into 
every  twist  of  her  hair,  as  she  prepared  for 
bed  amid  a  vast  silence. 

"He's  going  to-morrow  at  noon,"  volun 
teered  Nancy,  as  she  blew  out  the  light. 

No  comment  from  the  figure  upon  the  ex 
treme  inside  edge  of  the  bed,  with  face  turned 
toward  the  wall. 

Nancy  sighed. 

"  I  never  was  a  favourite.  My  father  never 
smiled,"  she  quoted  with  doleful  fervour. 

Priscilla  imitated  the  unappreciative  "  father," 
and  conversation  languished. 

When  the  Boarder  appeared  in  the  dining- 
room  on  Monday  morning,  he  carried  his 
bulging  knapsack  with  him.  Priscilla  was 
civilly  taciturn.  Nancy  was  gently  pensive, 
smiling  delightfully,  but  with  obvious  effort. 

Mr.  Wetherell  deposited  the  knapsack  in  a 
vacant  chair. 

"  I  thought  I  might  as  well  pack  up  and  not 


The  Vanishing  Boarder  137 

waste  any  of  the  morning,"  he  said  with  such 
unrestrained  gloom  that  for  an  instant  the 
pensiveness  slipped  its  moorings  and  Nancy's 
smile  lapsed  into  a  frank  gaiety,  which  she 
promptly  suppressed. 

"  You  are  going  to  help  me  get  those  water- 
lilies?"  she  asked. 

"Of  course." 

"The  pond  is  quite  a  mile  away." 

The  distance  evidently  did  not  weaken  his 
resolve. 

"But  it's  a  beautiful  walk.  You'll  enjoy 
it." 

Priscilla  smiled  grimly  into  her  oatmeal- 
bowl.  She  doubted  the  prophecy,  but  she 
was  convinced  that  Nancy,  at  least,  would 
enjoy  the  walk. 

The  Boarder  gazed  across  uneaten  porridge 
and  bacon  and  eggs,  at  the  pensive  young 
Person  in  the  blue  linen  frock. 

"You  aren't  eating  your  breakfast,"  the 
young  Person  said  reproachfully. 

He  admitted  the  fact,  but  made  no  apparent 
effort  toward  reform. 

When  breakfast  ended,  the  trio  wandered 
out  upon  the  front  stoop,  Priscilla  revolving 
plans  for  a  lonely  morning,  Nancy  talking 
lightly  about  the  weather,  the  Boarder  mute. 


138  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

From  the  road  came  the  thud  of  horse's  hoofs 
and  a  clatter  of  wheels  guiltless  of  rubber  tires. 
Nancy  eyed  the  approaching  cloud  of  dust 
listlessly. 

"We  do  need  rain,"  she  murmured,  then 
suddenly  every  muscle  of  her  face  and  body 
stiffened  into  consternation. 

Through  a  rift  in  the  dust  she  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  familiar  erect  figure  in  black.  She 
seized  the  Boarder's  arm  wildly  and  dragged 
him  inside  the  door. 

Amazed,  bewildered,  he  stared  at  her  terrified 
face  and  allowed  her  to  push  him  toward  the 
dining-room. 

"Miss  Reynolds! — Nancy! — what  is  it?"  he 
exclaimed. 

"Aunt  Hannah!" 

Horror  saturated  the  two  words. 

Priscilla,  who  had  followed  the  retreating 
party,  allowed  a  pardonable  "  I-told-you-so " 
gleam  to  lurk  for  one  moment  in  her  eyes, 
then  incontinently  surrendered  to  sympathy. 

"Out  the  back  door,"  she  gasped. 

Nancy  nodded. 

"You  stop  her  out  in  front.  Sandbag  her, 
if  you  can't  do  it  any  other  way  ! " 

Opening  and  shutting  his  mouth  futilely,  in 
vain  effort  to  demand  explanation,  the  dazed 


The  Vanishing  Boarder  139 

Boarder  took  the  knapsack,  which  Nancy 
thrust  into  his  hands,  and  was  hurried  on  into 
the  kitchen,  where  Maria  stood  over  the 
steaming  tubs. 

"  Maria,  Aunt  Hannah's  coming.  She's  most 
here!" 

The  handmaiden's  lower  jaw  dropped  like  a 
plummet. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  she  groaned. 

"Take  him  out  through  the  grape-arbour 
and  across  the  berry-patch.  She  can't  see  you 
there.  Come  back  just  as  soon  as  he's  in  the 
woods." 

"  B-b-b-ut,"  stammered  the  Boarder. 

"Oh,  go — please  go — if  you  don't  want  me 
to  cry;  run!  Maria'll  explain.  Oh,  do  go!" 

Maria  clutched  him  with  a  strong,  soapy 
hand. 

He  went,  unceremoniously,  uncomprehend- 
ingly,  but  recognising  in  a  vague  way  the 
urgency  of  quick  action. 

"But  I  may  write  to  you?  I  must  write  to 
you!"  came  back  over  his  shoulder,  as  Maria 
hustled  him  toward  the  sheltering  arbour. 

"Yes,  do  write,  but  run,  now.  Oh,  please 
run!" 

He  ran. 

Nancy  interrupted  the  tale  of  Molly's  short- 


140  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

comings,  to  which  Priscilla  was  listening  with 
an  absorbing  interest,  whose  subtle  flattery 
had  warmed  the  narrator  into  eloquence, 
and  detained  her  on  the  front  stoop. 

"Molly's  eloped!"  announced  Priscilla. 

"No!"  Nancy's  face  expressed  mingled 
horror  and  incredulity. 

Aunt  Hannah  untied  her  bonnet-strings 
viciously. 

"Clear  gone,  when  I  got  there.  She's 
crazy,  plump  crazy !  She  comes  out  of  my 
will  to-morrow.  So  does  her  mother  She 
might  a  stopped  the  girl,  if  she'd  a  had  a  grain 
of  sense.  No  born  fools  and  Irish  papists  are 
going  to  get  anything  out  of  this  farm  ! 

"How'd  you  get  along?" 

"Nicely."     Nancy's   face   was   crimson. 

"Where's  Maria?" 

"In  the  backyard." 

"Well,  I'll  go  change  my  dress." 

She  vanished  into  the  bedroom  opening  off 
the  parlour.  The  two  girls  went  out  into  the 
open  air  to  draw  long  breaths. 

"Nancy,  you  said  you  were  going  to  tell 
her." 

Priscilla  was  as  stern  as  an  accusing  angel. 

Nancy  fanned  herself  feebly  with  a  micro 
scopic  kerchief. 


The  Vanishing  Boarder  141 

"I  will,  dear,  honestly  I  will.  I've  danced, 
so  I'll  pay  the  piper — but  it  would  be  super 
human  to  pay  spot  cash  on  demand  like  that. 
I  need  a  season  of  fasting  and  prayer  before  I 
take  my  life  in  my  hands — and  this  was  so — 
so  sudden !" 

She  twinkled,  but  relapsed  into  contrition. 

"I'm  sorry,  Pris,  really,  I'm  sorry.  It  was 
horrid  of  me.  I'm  a  wretch.  I  wish  I  hadn't 
—but  wasn't  it  a  heavenly  interlude?  'How 
mad,  and  sad,  and  bad  it  was,  but,  oh,  how 
it  was  sweet !'  He  does  so  appreciate  Browning, 
Pris.  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  letter  he  writes  ? ' ' 

Maria  tiptoed  around  a  corner  of  the  house 
like  a  stealthy  hippopotamus. 

"  S-sh  ! "  she  hissed.  "  He's  gone  to  Millville. 
He  gave  me  five  dollars.  S-sh!" 

With  the  gesture  of  a  stage  conspirator,  she 
disappeared. 

"As  I  prophesied  in  prehistoric  times,"  said 
Nancy,  "a  touch  of  purple  does  brighten 
Maria's  landscape  wonderfully." 


GOWNS  AND  A  GOBOLINK 


GOWNS  AND  A  GOBOLINK 

YOU  are  quite  sure  it  is  becoming?" 
Nancy  eyed  herself  critically  in  the 
long  pier  -  glass  between  the  front 
windows. 

"Positive,"  asserted  Bobby,  with  profound 
conviction. 

Nancy  turned  around  and  looked  across 
her  shoulder  at  the  back  of  the  trailing  gray 
gown. 

"You  don't  think — Bobby,  you  truly  don't 
think  it  makes  me  look  fat  ? " 

There  was  tragic  appeal  in  her  tones. 

Bobby  smiled. 

"Just  about  as  fat  as  a  willow  wand,"  he 
suggested.  Then  he  added,  hastily  and  con 
scientiously — "  but  shapelier." 

Nancy  seemed  tremendously  relieved. 

"You  know,  Bobby,  I've  been  called  'plump' 
three  times  this  winter.  The  first  two  times 
I  didn't  mind  it,  because  women  did  it — thin 
women.  You  know  how  that  sort  of  woman 
says,  'Why,  dear,  you  are  getting  positively 
—plump. '  A  long  hesitation  before  the  '  plump,' 

MS 


146  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

Bobby.  That  means,  '  I  can't  forgive  you  for 
not  having  as  many  angles  as  I  have.' 

"  But  the  third  time  it  was  a  man  who 
called  me  plump.  That  made  me  shiver, 
because  he  thought  he  was  being  complimentary. 
I've  dieted  ever  since.  It's  a  dreadful  thing 
to  have  a  long  line  of  fat  ancestors  and  live  in 
their  shadow.  The  sword  of  Damocles  was 
cheering  compared  to  it. 

"You  don't  think  that  perhaps  a  big  chou 
and  ends  of  pale-yellow  chiffon — the  nice 
spring  crocusy  yellow — would  improve  me?" 

She  was  pathetically  appealing.  Bobby's 
smile  developed  into  a  laugh. 

"You  know  that  I  don't  think  anything 
from  any  one  of  the  four  seasons  could  improve 
you,"  he  said  with  emphasis. 

"So  bad  as  that?"  sighed  Nancy.  "Then  I 
may  as  well  stop  struggling." 

She  tucked  herself  into  the  corner  of  the 
huge  Davenport,  carefully  pre-empting  the 
pale-yellow  cushions. 

"Take  the  bright  pillows  and  sit  quite  at 
the  other  end  of  the  Davenport,  Bobby. 
Then  you'll  not  spoil  the  colour  scheme, 
and  can  get  enough  perspective  on  it  to 
really  enjoy  it.  You  see,  I'm  proud  of  this 
gown." 


Gowns  and  a  Gobolink  147 

"So  I  imagined,"  murmured  the  man  who 
came  often. 

"It's  so  unexpected." 

"Unexpected?"  echoed  Bobby. 

"Yes — and  I  have  eight  others  just  as  un 
expected.  It's  beatific,  Bobby.  You  shall 
see  them  at  the  rate  of  one  a  week.  You 
couldn't  stand  the  rapture  oftener  than  that. 

"I  have  four  new  hats,  too,  and  an  opera 
cloak,  and  gloves,  and  shoes,  and  slippers,  and 
a  spring  coat,  and — and  things."  Her  voice 
had  a  dreamy  suggestion  of  hasheesh  ecstasy. 

"  But  how  did  it  happen,  Nancy  ?  Any  one 
dead?" 

"No;  that's  the  beauty  of  it.  We  didn't 
kill  a  soul.  It  was  the  tidiest,  most  tactful 
bit  of  work  my  guardian  angel  ever  put  through 
— and  yet  so  thorough,  so  beautifully  thorough. 
If  that  angel  were  subsidised,  I'd  raise  his 
salary." 

"I  don't  understand,"  confessed  Bobby 
hopelessly. 

"Of  course  you  don't.  You  don't  know  the 
Man." 

Bobby  sat  up  suddenly,  a  vitalised  interro 
gation  point  surrounding  a  suppressed  excla 
mation  point. 

The    girl    among    the    pale-yellow    pillows 


148  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

smiled  at  him  sweetly.  She  has  a  special 
smile  for  those  moments  of  Bobby's,  a  guile 
less,  innocent,  happy,  creamy  smile,  that 
niters  softly  through  the  explosive  silence  and 
has  a  particularly  exasperating  effect  upon  the 
bad-tempered  young  man. 

"You  remember  the  railroad  wreck,"  she 
said  at  last.  Bobby's  face  softened.  He 
nodded. 

"I  haven't  really  told  you  about  it  since  I 
came  back.  I  haven't  had  a  chance.  First, 
you  were  away,  and  then  there  was  always 
some  one  here,  and— 

"  It  was  good  of  you  to  telegraph."  Bobby's 
voice  was  very  low.  "  I'd  have  been  desperate 
if  I  had  seen  the  papers  first." 

"Well,  you  see,  the  Man  asked  me  to  whom 
he  could  send  telegrams,  and  Daddy  and 
Mother  made  such  a  meagre  list,  I  put  you  in 
for  the  moral  effect."  She  looked  at  him  and 
relented. 

"Then  I — well,  I  just  happened  to  think 
that  I  might  never  have  seen  you  again,  and  I 
wished  I  had  been  nicer  that  afternoon,  and  I 
thought  I'd  like  to  telegraph  to  you — no, 
Bobby,  you  can't  begin  to  see  the  good  points 
of  this  frock  at  close  range.  What  Daddy 
calls  the  'toot  and  cymbal'  is  the  thing." 


Gowns  and  a  Gobolink  149 

Bobby  came  back  to  the  subject  of  the  new 
gowns,  but  his  face  had  cleared. 

"  What  did  the  wreck  have  to  do  with  a  gray 
gown?" 

Nancy  spread  her  hands  in  a  comprehensive 
gesture. 

"  Everything — everything." 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

"There  was  a  Man—       '  began  Nancy. 

"There  is  always  a  man,"  interrupted  Bobby 
rudely. 

"Exactly.  Didn't  I  say  that  my  guardian 
angel  deserved  a  raise  of  salary?  If  I  should 
die  before  you,  Bobby,  I  wish  you  would  see 
that  that  simple  but  comprehensive  phrase  is 
graven  on  my  tomb — 'There  was  always  a 
Man.'  There  you  have  history,  comment, 
and  appreciation  crystallised.  It's  an  ideal 
epitaph.  This  story  doesn't  exactly  begin  with 
the  Man,  though.  You  know  I  started 
to  Priscilla's  wedding.  My  wardrobe  was 
awfully  shabby,  Bobby.  It  was  between 
seasons,  and  I  had  worn  things  hard,  and 
Daddy  had  been  bothered  about  business,  so 
I  wouldn't  for  worlds  have  asked  him  for  any 
thing  new. 

"  I  didn't  even  have  a  fresh  frock  for  the 
wedding,  but  I  tucked  the  old  things  into  my 


150  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

disgracefully  battered  trunk  and  told  myself 
I  didn't  care. 

"I  was  the  only  woman  in  the  Pullman  car 
all  afternoon;  but  there  were  men — several 
men.  One  of  them  was  very  good  to  look  at, 
Bobby.  He  sat  across  the  aisle  from  me.  I 
sighed  every  time  I  glanced  at  him.  It's 
dreadfully  hampering  to  be  well-bred,  Bobby. 
The  Vermont  blood  in  me  has  interfered  with 
a  great  deal  of  simple  pleasure.  Now  I  know 
girls — girls  who  are  much  better  than  I,  girls 
of  whom  every  one  approves — who  never  take 
a  trip  without  having  some  delightful  adventure. 
They  always  meet  strange  knights  who  do  the 
most  charming  things  for  them  and  turn  out  to 
be  friends  of  the  girls'  friends,  and  rich  or  titled, 
and  susceptible,  and  prodigal  of  candy  and 
violets  and  theatre -boxes.  I've  travelled  untold 
miles,  and  I  never  met  a  man  in  my  life,  unless 
he  was  dragged  up  to  me  by  some  one  of  un 
impeachable  reputation,  and  formally  intro 
duced.  It  isn't  that  I  am  good.  It's  that 
I'm  either  stupid  or  unfortunate.  I  freeze 
solid  when  I  mount  a  car  platform,  and  even  a 
Pullman  car  steam-heat  doesn't  thaw  me. 

"  So  I  sighed  when  I  looked  at  the  Man  across 
the  aisle.  He  seemed  so  full  of  possibilities. 
Yet  I  knew  I  should  never  meet  him. 


Gowns  and  a  Gobolink  151 

"There's  where  I  misjudged  that  guardian 
angel,  Bobby.  He's  an  angel  of  resources. 
He  understands  my  prejudices  and  limitations. 
He  has  the  force  and  invention  to  cope  with 
them. 

"I  didn't  go  out  to  the  dining-car  early — I 
wasn't  hungry,  and  a  late  dinner  makes  the 
evening  shorter.  I  hate  evening  on  a  train. 
The  Man  wasn't  hungry  either.  Everybody 
else  in  the  car  was.  I  sat  and  stared  out  of 
the  window.  It  was  a  black  night,  but  the 
trees  were  blacker  than  the  night,  and  huddled 
together  like  frightened  gobolinks  as  we  flew 
by.  I  was  positively  grateful  to  every  light 
that  flashed  out  of  a  farmhouse  window. 
Slavery  to  convention  had  lowered  my  spirits. 
I  felt  depressed  by  my  own  propriety.  Con 
fidentially,  Bobby,  there's  nothing  that 
depresses  me  like  being  truly  good  under 
temptation.  Some  people  get  a  glow  out 
of  it.  They  don't  deserve  any  praise.  I 
always  know  I'm  going  to  be  sorry,  and 
yet  I'm  good  in  spite  of  it.  That's  what  I 
call  noble. 

"Nobility  sometimes  has  its  reward.  I've 
been  known  to  doubt  that ;  but  now  I  know  it 
is  true. 

"  I  was  watching  a  little  light  on  a  hill  ahead 


152  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

of  us.  Suddenly  the  light  turned  a  somersault 
and  exploded  like  a  Roman  candle. 

"  The  explosion  wa^  horribly  noisy.  It  wasn't 
any  respecter  of  person  or  propriety.  It  stood 
me  on  my  head  and  batted  me  against  hard 
woodwork  and  threw  me  down  in  a  dislocated 
heap. 

"When  I  settled  down  once  more  I  opened 
my  eyes.  Everything  was  dark.  Moreover, 
everything  was,  apparently,  upside  down.  I 
felt  around,  and  decided  I  was  sitting  on  a 
window  with  my  back  against  the  plush  seat. 
Something  heavy  lay  across  my  lap.  It  was 
soft,  and  had  on  a  rough-frieze  suit.  Suddenly 
it  sat  up,  looking  like  one  of  the  gobolinks,  and 
rubbed  its  head. 

'"Well,  I'll  be '  it  said. 

' '  It  looks  as  though  you'd  have  a  chance  to 
find  out  whether  you'll  be,'  I  suggested.  The 
Gobolink  gasped. 

"Oh,  by  Jove.  I  beg  your  pardon.'  It 
moved  a  foot  or  two  away,  quite  to  the  other 
side  of  the  window. 

"  '  Are  you  hurt  ? '  it  asked. 

'"No;  I'm  worse  than  hurt.  I'm  offended,' 
I  said.  You  know  I  don't  have  hysterics, 
Bobby;  but  I  was  threatened.  In  the  first 
place,  I  was  scared;  in  the  second  place,  I  was 


Gowns  and  a  Gobolink  153 

shaken  up;  and  in  the  third  place,  there  was 
the  good-looking  man  sitting  on  a  window  with 
me  at  the  bottom  of  a  Stygian  pit.  Talk  of 
having  a  man  thrown  at  one's  head !  My 
friends  had  tried  doing  it;  but  this  was  the 
real  thing.  At  last  I  had  undeniably  met  a 
strange  man  on  a  train. 

"He  wasn't  badly  hurt,  but  had  hit  his 
head  an  awful  whack,  and  been  stunned  for 
a  minute.  He  seemed  a  trifle  dazed  for  a  few 
minutes  longer.  Then  he  rose  to  the  situation. 
1  'We're  in  a  ditch,'  he  said.  I  told  him  the 
idea  had  occurred  to  me.  He  asked  me  if  I  was 
afraid  to  stay  alone  for  a  few  minutes,  and  I 
lied  stoutly.  I  wanted  him  to  sit  right  there 
and  hold  my  hand  tightly — not  as  a  matter  of 
sentiment,  Bobby;  merely  by  way  of  human 
encouragement — but  I  let  him  go.  I  couldn't 
hear  a  sound.  All  the  other  cars  and  passengers 
might  have  been  ground  to  powder.  Still, 
there  was  no  reason  why,  if  I  happened  to  be 
rescued,  I  should  look  like  a  fright,  so  I  straight 
ened  my  hair  and  got  my  red-flannel  powder- 
rag  out  of  my  chatelaine-bag.  There  was 
something  very  comforting  about  that  powder- 
rag,  Bobby.  It  was  so  every-day  common 
place.  It  reassured  me.  It  was  absurd  to 
think  of  dying  while  one  could  sit  comfortably 


154  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

on  a  window  and  use  a  red-flannel  powder- 
rag. 

"Still,  I  was  glad  when  the  Gobolink  peered 
over  the  side  of  the  car  scat.  He  was  tremen 
dously  cheerful,  said  we  were  all  right  and  in 
no  danger  at  all,  but  that  I'd  have  to  climb 
over  two  seats  to  get  to  the  passageway,  and 
then  lie  down  and  squirm  through  the  passage. 
He  pulled  me  up,  and  I  did  credit  to  my 
gymnasium  teacher.  The  passageway  wasn't 
so  easy.  You  know  how  wide  those  little 
passages  around  the  stateroom  and  smoking- 
room  are.  Well,  just  turn  them  on  their  sides, 
so  that  their  width  is  their  height,  and  then  try 
to  go  through  them.  There's  only  one  way. 
I  shall  always  look  at  a  turtle  with  respect. 
It  isn't  so  easy  as  it  seems  wrhen  one  watches 
him.  I  sent  the  Gobolink  through  first.  Not 
even  fear  and  haste  could  reconcile  me  to  doing 
a  human  turtle-act  before  any  one. 

"  I  was  sorry  it  was  too  dark  for  real  appre 
ciation  of  his  method.  He's  a  dignified  man 
with  rather  gray  hair,  and  a  face  like  a  Roman 
senator.  I'd  enjoy  seeing  him  do  turtle. 
After  he  got  through,  I  lay  down  flat  and 
squirmed  through  myself.  That  passage  seemed 
a  mile  long,  Bobby.  I'm  so  sorry  for  all  the 
things  that  have  to  go  hitching  along  through 


Gowns  and  a  Gobolink  155 

life  on  their  stomachs.  But,  then,  I  suppose 
they  are  built  for  it,  and  don't  find  it  as  incon 
venient  as  I  did. 

"When  I  got  through,  we  climbed  up  out  of 
the  ditch.  There  were  crowds  of  people  around. 
Two  cars  were  standing  on  the  track.  Three 
more  were  toppled  over.  The  engine  was  in 
the  ditch.  The  baggage-car  and  mail-car  were 
perfect  wrecks.  No  one  was  killed.  Only 
seven  people  were  hurt,  and  none  of  the  seven 
was  in  serious  condition.  Really,  Bobby,  it 
was  beautifully  arranged.  Some  guardian 
angels  would  have  bungled  it.  I  might  have 
felt  responsible,  if  any  one  had  been  badly  hurt ; 
but  there  I  was,  there  was  the  good-looking 
man,  there  were  the  proprieties  intact,  there 
were  prejudices  brushed  aside.  The  measures 
had  been  radical,  but  effectual." 

"But  the  gray  gown?"  insisted  Bobby. 

"I'm  coming  to  the  gray  gown.  You 
wouldn't  have  me  put  my  climax  in  the  middle 
of  my  story,  would  you?  Men  usually  do 
that.  Then  the  rest  of  the  story  is  boresome. 
I've  often  longed  to  teach  the  philosophy  of 
rational  development  to  the  men  I  know. 

"Given  a  summer  season,  given  seashore  or 
mountain  stage -setting,  given  a  man  and  a 
maid:  how  shall  the  man  and  the  maid  evolve 


156  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

a  plot  that  will  be  progressively  dramatic,  but 
not  reach  its  climax  until  late  September? 
There's  a  problem  for  the  class.  The  average 
man  drops  the  climax  into  the  middle  of 
August.  Then  a  good  thing  is  spoiled,  and 
what  shall  the  man  and  the  maid  do  with  the 
tag-ends  of  the  season  ? 

"Haste  is  fatal  to  all  good  work,  Bobby. 
Where  was  I?" 

"On  the  edge  of  the  ditch,"  prompted 
Bobby. 

"Yes,  that's  it — and  I  like  being  on  the 
edge  of  a  ditch.  There's  the  possibility  of 
going  either  way,  and  there's  a  fair  certainty 
of  excitement,  past,  present,  or  future. 

"  The  Gobolink  had  blossomed  into  the  good- 
looking  man,  because  there  were  lanterns  and 
torches.  His  cheek  was  cut,  but  that  wasn't  a 
disfigurement." 

"Probably  his  cheek  could  stand  cutting," 
growled  Bobby;  but  Nancy  overlooked  it. 

"He  put  me  down  on  a  big  rock  and  went 
off  for  a  while.  Then  he  came  back,  and  told 
me  all  about  things.  He  said  there  was  a  farm 
house  not  far  away,  and  that  he  would  take 
me  over  there.  The  wrecking  train  wouldn't 
be  along  for  some  time,  arid  we  couldn't  go  on 
our  way  for  several  hours.  In  the  meantime 


Gowns  and  a  Gobolink  157 

he  wanted  something  to  eat,  and  I  must  have 
something. 

"  He  tucked  me  under  his  arm  and  trailed 
me  off  up  the  hill,  in  the  wake  of  a  boy,  who 
seemed  to  have  been  engaged  as  guide.  He 
was  a  very  magerful  man,  Bobby;  and  after  a 
railroad  wreck,  I  believe  I  like  magerfulness. 
I  was  docile.  I  was  lamblike.  You  wouldn't 
have  known  me. 

"The  woman  of  the  house  was  a  dear.  She 
took  me  in  and  mothered  me  and  purred  over 
me,  and  was  disappointed  because  I  didn't 
bear  .a  scratch.  It  cheered  her,  though,  to 
have  a  chance  at  the  man's  cheek,  and  she 
patched  it  up  beautifully.  Her  man  had  gone 
to  the  wreck,  but  she  had  thought  somebody 
might  be  brought  to  the  house,  so  she  stayed 
at  home.  Nobody  else  wandered  up  there. 
She  guessed  they  must  have  gone  to  one  of  the 
other  farmhouses,  and  she  distinctly  resented 
it,  but  she  treated  us  royally.  We  had  eggs 
and  bacon,  Bobby,  and  two  kinds  of  pie,  and 
something  like  fifty-seven  different  varieties  of 
marmalade  and  pickles.  After  supper  the 
Man  went  down  to  the  wreck,  but  he  came  back 
soon — said  he  wasn't  needed. 

"The  hostess  went  into  the  kitchen  to 
'wash  up.'  Give  me  the  country  for  real 


158  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

friendliness,  Bobby.  I  could  have  loved  that 
woman.  Just  think  how  little  excitement  she 
must  have  in  her  life,  and  what  a  godsend  we 
must  have  been — and  yet  she  wouldn't  spoil 
a  tete-a-tete  for  all  the  world. 

"I  hope  I'm  good,  Bobby;  but  I'm  not  so 
good  as  that. 

"We  had  a  beautiful  time,  the  Man  and  I, 
in  that  best  room.  The  green  crocheted  mats 
and  the  wax  flowers  were  positively  inspiring 
— and  then  I  was  glad  to  be  alive.  That 
gave  me  an  unselfish  desire  to  make 
things  interesting  for  other  people,  and  I 
did  my  best  with  the  limited  opportunity 
offered.  I  was  in  love  with  Providence— 
but  I  didn't  yet  realise  the  scope  of  my 
blessings.  I  was  regarding  the  Man  as 
plain  man.  Even  in  that  light  he  was  admir 
able. 

"He  was  so  sympathetic  about  my  luggage. 
We  went  down  to  the  wreck  and  he  had  men 
hunt  for  my  trunk,  but  there  wasn't  anything 
left  of  it,  apparently.  I  sat  on  a  log  and  wailed 
aloud.  All  my  good  clothes  at  one  fell  swoop 
— and  Daddy  hard  up  ! 

"It  was  too  much.  Of  course  the  clothes 
were  rather  shabby,  but  as  I  looked  back  at 
them  they  seemed  altogether  lovely.  And  how 


Gowns  and  a  Gobolink  159 

could  I  be  bridesmaid  for  Priscilla,  in  a  muddy 
travelling-gown  ? 

"  The  Man  came  and  sat  on  the  log  with  me, 
and  I  told  him  all  about  it.  He's  the  kind  of 
man  to  whom  one  tells  things.  He  understood 
just  how  I  felt,  which  was  wonderful,  consider 
ing  the  fact  that  he  had  never  worn  a  pink 
chiffon  evening-gown  and  grown  attached  to 
it.  He  asked  how  many  gowns  I'd  lost,  which 
was  impertinent;  but  I  didn't  think  so  at  the 
time.  I  accepted  it  as  perfectly  natural  interest 
in  an  overwhelming  calamity.  I  told  him 
about  the  gowns.  I  dwelt  upon  their  good 
points.  It  was  like  talking  over  the  virtues 
of  a  dead  friend.  The  good  points  grew  as  I 
thought  of  them.  The  dressmaker  who  made 
those  gowns  wouldn't  have  recognised  the 
radiant  and  beautiful  creations  as  I  presented 
them,  but  I  didn't  mean  to  exaggerate.  The 
blessings  had  brightened  as  they  took  their 
flight.  I  lingered  over  the  opera  cloak  until 
the  Man  asked  me  if  I  hadn't  ever  had  my 
picture  taken  in  it,  and  said  he  considered  that 
Fate  had  been  bitterly  unkind  to  him,  because 
he'd  never  been  allowed  to  tuck  me  into  that 
cloak.  When  I  came  to  my  white  Virot  hat 
I  cried.  Yes,  I  did,  Bobby.  It  was  such  a 
duck  of  a  hat,  and  I  was  so  tired  and  shaken 


160  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

up,  and  I  felt  as  if  I'd  never  be  able  to  buy 
another  hat  above  Grand  Street.  The  tears 
just  trickled  miserably  down  my  nose,  and  I 
dabbed  at  them  with  my  kerchief  and  sniffled. 
Yes,  I'm  afraid  I  sniffled.  I  always  do  when 
I  cry.  That's  the  reason  I  don't  cry  often.  It 
isn't  pluck.  It's  vanity.  But  that  white  hat ! 
I  simply  choked  over  it;  and  yet,  I  was  smiling 
like  an  imbecile,  too,  over  my  foolishness. 

"  The  Man  looked  savage. 

'"Don't  do  that!'  he  said.  'Don't,  I  tell 
you.'  I've  never  been  spoken  to  so,  Bobby. 
It  paralysed  me  into  tearlessness.  I  shouldn't 
have  expected  him  to  be  unsympathetic. 

"  He  looked  sheepish,  but  still  savage. 

'"If  you  do  that  again,  I'll— I'll— well, 
I'll  make  you  angry  and  scandalise  the  crowd,' 
he  said. 

"  After  all,  I  don't  believe  he's  unsympathetic. 
But  I  didn't  cry  any  more. 

"When  our  train  came  we  sat  together.  It 
was  late,  but  I  had  to  get  off  at  12:30.  The 
Man  handed  me  over  to  Priscilla  and  her 
brother.  He  gave  me  his  card,  and  I  asked 
him  to  call  on  Daddy  and  be  properly  thanked. 
He  hesitated  a  minute,  and  then  said  he  had 
some  influence  with  the  road,  and  would  see 
that  my  claim  for  damages  \vas  attended  to  at 


Gowns  and  a  Gobolink  161 

once,  without  legal  formalities,  if  I  would  fix  a 
valuation.  I  couldn't  do  it.  The  clothes 
seemed  beautiful  in  retrospect,  but  I  knew  they 
were  almost  worn  out.  The  train  was  starting. 
'Never  mind,'  he  said;  'I've  a  sister,  and  I 
guess  I  have  a  fairly  complete  inventory.  We'll 
make  allowance  for  sundries.' 

"He  climbed  on  the  rear  platform  and  was 
gone. 

"I  borrowed  one  of  Priscilla's  trousseau 
gowns  to  wear  to  the  wedding,  and  stayed  a 
week  in  borrowed  clothes. 

"The  day  before  I  come  away  I  heard  from 
Daddy.  He  said  he  had  had  a  letter  from 
the  railroad  officials,  inclosing  a  cheque  to 
cover  the  amount  of  my  loss  in  the  wreck.  He 
had  also  had  a  call  from  the  attorney  of  the 
road,  who  explained  that  he  had  taken  the 
liberty  of  attending  to  my  claim  because  he 
had  been  on  the  train  at  the  time  of  the  accident, 
and  had  had  the  pleasure  of  being  of  some 
slight  service  to  me. 

"The  cheque  was  for  $1,500.  Daddy  was 
shocked,  but  said  the  only  thing  for  it  was  to 
take  it  all  as  a  business  matter  and  make  no 
protest.  He  considered,  however,  that  I  had 
been  dishonest  in  setting  my  valuation.  He 
was  desperately  disapproving.  I  couldn't  make 


162  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

him  understand  that  I  didn't  deliberately  over 
rate  those  frocks,  and  couldn't  be  responsible 
for  a  railroad  man's  idea  of  sundries. 

"I've  had  an  orgy  at  my  dressmaker's  and 
milliner's.  The  Gobolink  is  coming  to  dine 
with  Daddy  to-morrow. 

"General  solicitor  of  the  road,  Bobby! — and 
he  might  have  been  travelling  salesman  for  a 
hardware  firm.  Oh,  this  is  a  good  world. 

"Bobby,  you  don't  look  happy.  I  wasn't 
killed  in  the  wreck,  you  know.  It's  not  a  sad 
story,  at  all. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do  for  you.  I'll- 
ril — Bobby,  when  you  are  so  tired  of  me  that 
you  want  to  put  the  continent  between  us,  I'll 
get  you  a  pass." 


A   DISTURBER  OF  THE    PEACE 


A  DISTURBER  OF  THE  PEACE 

JACK  RAINSFORD  was  primarily  respon 
sible  for  Nancy's  sociological  experi 
ment.  If  he  had  allowed  her  to  be  a 
sister  to  him,  the  young  woman  would  have 
kept  the  somewhat  uneven  soprano  of  her  way 
without  feeling  the  need  of  excursions  outside 
of  her  own  peculiar  province  of  sociological 
research. 

Jack  is  a  nice  boy,  but  he  is  lamentably 
wanting  in  appreciation  of  the  fraternal  rela 
tion.  He  had  distinct  and  well-defined  ideas 
concerning  the  thing  he  wanted,  and  a  sister 
was  not  the  thing. 

Consequently,  when  Nancy  magnanimously 
offered  to  regard  him  as  a  brother,  he  declined 
promptly  and  decisively.  He  also  said  things 
in  regard  to  feminine  strategic  methods 
which  were  more  truthful  than  polite, 
and  which  wounded  Nancy  deeply.  To  be 
misunderstood  is  always  painful.  Possibly 
there  is  only  one  thing  more  painful.  That  is 
to  be  understood. 

The  frank  and  unresigned  Mr.  Rainsford 
165 


166  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

turned  his  back  upon  the  false  fleeting  one  and 
went  his  way. 

"Youth,  youth  !"  apostrophised  Nancy  from 
her  vantage  point  of  twenty-two  years — but 
her  smile  was  a  trifle  wobbly  at  the  corners. 
She  has  the  saving  grace  of  being  honest  with 
herself,  and  of  recognising  the  truth,  even  when 
it  drops  from  the  lips  of  youth.  Moreover,  she 
liked  Jack. 

"He's  quite  right,"  she  confided  to  the  blue- 
and-white  teapot.  "I'm  a  horrid  little  cat — 
and  I'm  going  to  reform." 

She  sat  up  very  straight  and  punched  a 
down  cushion  emphatically. 

"  I  hate  a  flirt," — even  the  dragon  on  the  tea 
pot  appeared  to  smile. 

"I'm  going  to  do  something  to  make  people 
happy — chronically  happy,  I  mean."  The  fine 
glow  of  purpose  was  interrupted  by  a  reminis 
cent  twinkle. 

"  I've  done  a  good  deal  toward  making  people 
happy — in  spots." 

That  evening  Miss  Reynolds  was  not  at 
home  to  callers.  Arrayed  in  a  most  becoming 
pink  boudoir  gown,  she  sat  in  her  own  room 
and  pondered. 

At  last  she  scrambled  out  of  the  easy-chair 
and  went  to  her  desk.  Her  mind  was  made  up. 


A  Disturber  of  the  Peace  167 

Miss  Caldwell,  Isabel  Worthington's  cousin, 
was  one  of  the  head  workers  of  the  Essex  Street 
Settlement.  Only  a  week  before  she  had 
talked  to  the  members  of  the  Current  Events 
Club  about  the  possibilities  of  East  Side  work, 
the  need  of  intelligent  workers.  Nancy  had 
once  conducted  a  dance  club  at  the  church 
parish  house  with  distinguished  success.  She 
would  enlarge  her  arena  and  would  go  in  for 
sociology  seriously. 

Since  Jack  Rainsford  refused  to  have  her 
for  a  sister,  she  would  be  a  little  sister  to  the 
East  Side. 

A  letter  to  Miss  Caldwell,  and  an  interview 
with  that  estimable  and  enthusiastic  woman, 
clinched  the  matter.  Mr.  Reynolds  objected, 
and  Mrs.  Reynolds  had  visions  of  myriad 
microbes,  but  Nancy  has  a  way  with  her  even 
when  dealing  with  parents. 

The  prospective  sociologist  bought  two  new 
tailor  suits,  with  instep-length  skirts — out  of 
consideration  for  her  mother's  scruples  against 
microbe  collection,  as  she  explained  when  the 
bill  came  in.  She  also  invested  a  considerable 
lump  sum  in  silk  stockings  of  a  superior  charm. 

"Really,  Nancy,"  protested  her  mother 
feebly. 

"We'll  look  upon  them  as  a  contribution  to 


i68  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

the  Fresh-Air  Fund,  Mumsey.  They'll  be 
like  a  day  in  the  country  to  the  observing  poor." 

But,  in  spite  of  a  frivolous  attitude  toward 
costuming  for  the  role,  the  young  woman  was 
in  earnest,  and  honestly  ready  to  spend  and  be 
spent  in  the  cause  of  the  poor. 

"She  has  a  beautiful  spirit,"  said  Miss  Cald- 
well  to  Doctor  Braddock,  her  co-worker,  after 
their  decisive  interview  with  the  aspirant  for 
a  settlement  niche. 

"She  has  a  beautiful  face,"  commented  the 
Doctor,  with  sucli  conviction  that  Miss  Cald- 
well  looked  up  at  him  sharply. 

The  new  worker  dawned  upon  the  settlement 
on  the  first  of  April.  There  were  up-town 
friends  unsympathetic  enough  to  intimate  that 
there  was  a  peculiar  appropriateness  in  the 
day  chosen,  but  Nancy  ignored  the  comment. 

She  plunged  into  the  work  with  a  zeal  re 
freshing  to  behold,  and  the  precinct  went  down 
before  her  like  grain  before  the  mower's  scythe. 
The  babies  who  were  brought  to  day  nursery 
crowed  when  she  took  them  from  the  little 
mothers.  The  kindergarten  tots  giggled  joy 
ously  at  the  very  sight  of  her.  The  boys' 
club  suspended  hostilities  and  became  as  a 
flock  of  lambs  when  she  loomed  upon  the  hori 
zon.  The  mothers'  meeting  took  her,  figura- 


A  Disturber  of  the  Peace  169 

tively  speaking,  to  its  collective  bosom,  the 
first  time  she  poured  tea  for  it. 

"She  fits  in  anywhere,"  said  the  delighted 
Miss  Caldwell. 

And  Nancy?  She  was  radiant.  Appreciation 
is  the  breath  of  her  being,  and  though  she  had 
enjoyed  a  very  generous  share  of  that  com 
modity,  never  before  had  it  come  to  her  in  such 
solid  lumps. 

Her  heart  swelled  within  her.  She  loved 
the  East  Side  individually,  collectively,  and  in 
family  groups.  Possibly  she  loved  not  wisely, 
but  too  well.  Her  treatment  of  the  small 
children  was  not  always  according  to  Froebel, 
and  her  principles  concerning  the  pauperising 
the  poor  would  have  given  the  directors  a 
shock,  had  they  been  made  public. 

She  was  not  always  just,  but  she  was  gener 
ous.  The  East  Side  imposed  upon  her  and 
adored  her.  A  visit  from  her  meant  more  to 
the  sick  than  all  the  dispensary's  medicine, 
and  no  tenement  was  grimy  enough,  no  patient 
disreputable  enough  to  appall  her. 

She  laughed  and  talked  and  smiled  her  way 
where  sociology  of  the  noblest  and  most 
psychological  type  found  the  door  slammed  in 
its  face. 

Several   weeks   went   by   and  the   first   fine 


170  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

careless  rapture  of  Nancy's  enthusiasm  showed 
no  sign  of  decline. 

In  the  meantime  the  settlement  work  grew 
and  flourished  in  marvellous  fashion — various 
phenomena  of  the  development  interested  the 
directors  and  workers  exceedingly,  and  furnished 
the  theme  for  much  psychological  and  socio 
logical  theorising  and  discussion  among  the 
devoted  band. 

The  boys'  club  swelled  to  unheard  of  pro 
portions.  Doctor  Braddock  was  inclined  to 
credit  the  gymnasium  with  the  progress  in  this 
line,  but  many  of  his  co-workers  insisted  that 
the  introduction  of  self-government  principles, 
parliamentary  rules,  and  committee  work  had 
caught  the  boys'  interest.  Nancy,  wrho  was 
particularly  knowing  in  matters  of  parlia 
mentary  rules,  thanks  to  class  presidency  at 
college  and  club  presidency  since,  and  who  took 
a  special  interest  in  instructing  the  boys  in 
these  matters  and  overseeing  the  committee 
work,  was  convinced  that  these  new  ideas  and 
methods  were  the  drawing  card,  and  urged 
Doctor  Braddock  to  personal  supervision  of 
the  subjects,  but  he  was  a  busy  man  and  assured 
her  that  she  was  doing  fairly  well. 

As  an  outcome  of  the  boys'  club  came  a 
demand  for  clubs  for  the  older  men.  Here, 


A  Disturber  of  the  Peace  171 

too,  parliamentary  rules  were  in  order,  and 
Miss  Reynolds  was  called  into  consultation 
upon  everything  from  the  opening  of  a  window 
to  the  drafting  of  resolutions  of  condolence  for 
a  widower. 

Miss  Reynolds  was  also  mistress  of  ceremonies 
and  dancing-teacher  for  the  social  clubs,  and 
the  street -corners  and  saloon-doors  were  left 
lonely  on  club  nights. 

"We're  gathering  them  in,  we're  gathering 
them  in,"  said  Doctor  Braddock  jubilantly. 
"  In  time  this  settlement  will  clear  up  this 
whole  neighbourhood.  We  are  getting  a  hold 
upon  public  opinion  in  the  district.  People 
are  beginning  to  understand  our  motives  and 
appreciate  the  opportunities  we  offer." 

But  the  crowning  triumph  of  the  settlement 
was  the  reforming  of  Billy  Harrigan. 

Billy  was  the  leader  of  the  Goerck  Street 
gang,  the  bogie-man  of  the  district.  Small 
boys  spoke  his  name  with  bated  breath  and 
fearful  admiration.  The  tale  of  his  toughness 
resounded  throughout  the  whole  East  Side, 
and  moved  even  Gas-House  Charlie  to  jealousy. 

With  his  hat  on  one  side,  his  red  tie  flaming, 
his  diamond  stud  blazing,  and  his  lower  jaw 
at  an  aggressive  angle,  he  held  up  the  bar  in 
Smooth  Mike's  saloon  and  was  pointed  out  to 


172  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

visitors  as  a  local  celebrity;  or  he  strolled 
down  the  Bowery  leaving  a  wake  of  murmured 
admiration  behind  him  as  he  passed,  and 
setting  feminine  hearts  a  flutter  with  his  lordly 
glance. 

The  battles  he  waged  and  the  deeds  he  did 
demand  an  epic  strain,  but  for  a  brief  season 
there  was  an  interregnum  in  his  busy  life, 
and  the  bird  of  peace  brooded  over  him. 

From  the  very  start  the  settlement  had 
felt  his  baleful  influence.  He  had  ridiculed  it 
early  and  late,  had  jeered  boys  and  men  out  of 
allegiance  to  it,  had  laid  traps  for  the  tripping 
of  converts,  had  played  practical  jokes  upon 
every  one  connected  with  the  place.  His  very 
name  was  anathema  to  the  settlement  group; 
and  when,  one  evening  in  late  April,  he  ap 
peared  in  the  settlement  library,  with  a  high 
patent-leather  polish  upon  face  and  hair,  and  a 
particularly  flamboyant  necktie,  there  was 
confusion  in  the  ranks  and  conviction  of  im 
pending  disaster.  The  boys  and  girls  were 
manifestly  agitated,  the  young  women  of  the 
settlement  were  alarmed.  Doctor  Braddock 
was  away.  Miss  Caldwell  was  reading  a  paper 
at  an  up-town  club. 

Nancy,  arranging  music  upon  the  piano  in 
the  big  club-room,  preparatory  to  an  informal 


A  Disturber  of  the  Peace  173 

concert,  was  confronted  by  Eliza  Lowenstein, 
whose  short  braids  quivered  with  excitement. 

"Please,  ma'am,  Billy  Harrigan,  he's  here!" 

Nancy  dropped  the  music. 

"No!" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  He's  fixed  up  awful  stylish, 
'n  there's  lumps  in  his  pants'  pockets — maybe 
they  might  be  pistols.  Ikey  says  he's  always 
got  pistols  by  him.  Onc't  he 

The  narrative  was  interrupted  by  the  arrival 
of  the  resplendent  Mr.  Harrigan. 

Nancy's  spirits  rose.  He  seemed  to  be  a 
mere  man,  and  she  had  no  reason  to  be  afraid 
of  men.  She  had  always  found  them  ame 
nable  to  reason.  She  proceeded  to  reason 
with  Mr.  Harrigan,  after  her  own  fashion. 
First  she  smiled  at  him.  He  appeared  to 
find  the  operation  impressive.  Then  she 
held  out  her  hand. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  come,"  she  said  fer 
vently.  "I've  wanted  to  know  you." 

The  man  who  would  not  be  proud  to  afford 
Nancy  the  privilege  of  knowing  him  is  yet 
unborn.  Billy  Harrigan  was  tough,  but  no 
stoic.  He  felt  his  vertebrae  softening,  but  he 
squared  his  shoulders. 

"Well,  I  ain't  no  mamma's  boy.  Ye  can 
take  that  straight !"  he  said  defiantly. 


174  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

"  But  I'm  not  making  a  collection  of  mamma 
boys,"  Nancy  assured  him.  "You  see  there 
are  so  many  things  I  need  to  know  about  people 
and  things  down  here,  and  nobody  could  tell 
me  everything  as  well  as  you  could.  I've 
always  thought  that  if  I  only  knew  you,  and  if 
you'd  help  me— 

She  smiled  again,  such  a  soft  deprecatory, 
pleading  little  smile  that  Billy  instinctively 
guarded  with  his  left.  He  felt  that  the  smile 
would  land. 

It  did. 

Later  in  the  evening,  Doctor  Braddock, 
coming  from  a  political  meeting,  stopped  at 
the  club-room  door  and  looked  in. 

The  renowned  leader  of  the  Goerck  Street 
gang  was  handing  around  plates  of  ice-cream, 
in  a  mild  and  chastened  manner  that  would 
have  done  credit  to  a  curate. 

Miss  Reynolds  was  superintending  the  per 
formance. 

"  Great  Scot ! "  murmured  the  Doctor.  "  Great 
Scot ! ' '  but  he  was  wise  enough  to  leave  the 
situation  to  Nancy. 

Billy  Harrigan  was  nothing  if  not  thorough. 
Having  changed  his  spots,  he  went  in  for 
settlement  joys,  with  an  ardour  that  was 
positively  inspiring. 


A  Disturber  of  the  Peace  175 

Early  and  late  he  haunted  the  library,  the 
club-room,  the  hall. 

He  joined  everything  for  which  masculinity 
was  eligible. 

He  sang  at  the  concerts,  he  danced  at  the 
dances,  he  debated,  he  boxed,  he  attended 
lantern-slide  exhibitions,  he  displayed  an  un 
natural  passion  for  afternoon  tea. 

Smooth  Mike's  knew  him  no  more.  The 
Bowery  promenade  lost  its  brightest  ornament. 

Rumours  floated  into  the  settlement  con 
cerning  certain  affrays  in  which  the  reformed 
one  still  indulged,  but  investigation  usually 
showed  that  the  trouble  was  the  direct  result 
by  difference  of  opinion  in  regard  to  the  merits 
of  the  settlement.  Within  a  short  time  it  was 
thoroughly  understood,  throughout  the  quarter, 
that  Bill  would  wipe  up  the  street  with  any 
body  who  said  the  settlement  wasn't  the  real 
thing,  and  criticism  of  the  institution  lan 
guished. 

Then  it  was  that  James  Donovan  tripped  on 
a  torn  stair  carpet,  landed  on  his  right  shoulder, 
and  broke  his  arm  in  two  places.  The  settle 
ment  was  without  a  "handy  man,"  and 
lamentations  loud  and  deep  arose. 

Nancy,  young  and  inexperienced,  did  not 
appreciate  the  extent  of  the  catastrophe,  but 


176  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

the  other  workers  remembered  the  time  before 
the  smooth  running  and  irreproachable  James 
appeared  above  the  settlement  horizon. 

It  was  necessary  to  have  a  man  about  the 
house,  and  a  man  of  versatile  talents  was 
needed.  He  must  be  sober,  industrious,  ami 
able,  polite.  He  must  be  able  to  run  anything, 
from  the  furnace  to  a  reception  for  the  bishop, 
to  do  any  odd  job,  from  holding  a  baby  to 
ejecting  drunken  club-members.  The  com 
bination  was  apparently  a  rare  one. 

Incumbents  rose  and  fell — the  falling  being 
inevitably  attended  by  the  crash  of  disaster — 
until  upon  a  red-letter  day,  the  incomparable 
James,  out  of  sheer  devotion  to  the  settlement 
cause  and  "The  Settlement  Ladies,"  undertook 
to  be  the  tutelary  genius  of  the  place.  Since 
then  the  household  had  known  something 
approaching  serenity,  and  the  domestic  wheels 
had  run  smoothly. 

"We'll  never  find  another  James,"  sighed 
Miss  Caldwell. 

"Everything  will  go  wrong  now,"  grieved 
the  workers. 

But  the  settlement  had  yet  to  know  Billy 
Harrigan. 

Even  before  the  unfortunate  James  was 
neatly  bandaged,  Billy  was  asking  for  his  job. 


A  Disturber  of  the  Peace  177 

Incredulity,  amazement,  delight  played  over 
Miss  Cald well's  expressive  face.  A  brand  from 
the  burning  and  a  handy-man  in  one !  It  was 
too  good  to  be  true. 

"  But  are  you  sure  you  understand  what  will 
be  expected  of  you?"  she  asked.  "There's  a 
great  deal  of  work.  Would  you  be  willing  to 
turn  your  hand  to  anything  that  happens  to 
come  up?" 

"Sure!"  affirmed  Billy  stoutly. 

"And  you  will  stay  here  in  the  evening?" 

"  Ye  can't  lose  me." 

"The  wages  aren't  high," 

"Fergit  it,"  urged  Billy. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Harrigan,  we'll  be  very  glad  to 
have  you  with  us.  When  can  you  come?" 

"I'm  here — but  say,  me  name's  Billy." 

When  Nancy  came  in  from  a  round  of  visits, 
the  new  man  opened  the  door  for  her. 

"Why,  Mr.  Harrigan!" 

"Call  me  Billy.  I'm  the  new  main  guy. 
James  went  off  in  the  hurry-up  wagon." 

His  hat  was  on  his  head,  there  was  a  cigar 
in  his  mouth,  but  satisfaction  and  amiability 
radiated  from  him. 

No  one  missed  James.  The  new  .man  filled 
the  place.  His  good  nature  was  unfailing,  his 
strength  was  amazing,  his  resourcefulness  never 


178  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

ceased  to  surprise  the  household.  He  was 
equal  to  any  and  every  emergency,  and  a  mere 
word  from  him  quieted  the  most  unruly  spirits 
among  the  men  and  boys. 

His  vocabulary  and  his  manners  were  pic 
turesque,  but,  as  Miss  Caldwell  said,  that  was 
a  thing  which  time  and  association  would 
adjust. 

Incidently,  she  asked  the  workers  to  assist 
and  to  bend  the  Harrigan  twig  as  rapidly  as 
would  be  consistent  with  consideration  for 
an  independent  and  sensitive  nature.  From 
Nancy's  influence,  in  particular,  Miss  Caldwell 
expected  much. 

"  He  seems  to  have  confidence  in  you,  my 
dear,  and  you  have  a  great  deal  of  tact.  Don't 
find  fault  with  him,  but  just  let  him  see  that  it 
would  please  us  to  have  him  a  little  bit  different 
in  certain  ways.  I  have  a  serious  sense  of  respon 
sibility  in  regard  to  that  young  man.  We've 
done  wonders  with  him  already,  and  I  feel  that 
we  have  an  opportunity  to  make  a  man  of  him 
—but  don't  lecture  him  or  preach  at  him. 
We  must  just  show  him  the  beautiful  side  of 
life,  and  make  him  understand  that  that  is  the 
true  life." 

Nancy  listened  with  interest  and  dutifully 
carried  out  instructions.  Billy  gradually  be- 


A  Disturber  of  the  Peace  179 

came  softer  of  voice,  lighter  of  foot,  more 
respectful  of  manner.  He  smoked  only  in 
moments  of  relaxation  and  threw  away  his 
chewing  tobacco.  The  red  necktie  abdicated 
in  favour  of  dark  blue — Nancy  was  so  fond  of 
dark  blue — and  pink  shirts  gave  way  to  white 
ones.  Of  course,  white  soiled  easily,  but  the 
East  Side  has  no  prejudice  against  adjustable 
cuffs,  and  Nancy  thought  a  white  shirt  and  blue 
tie  the  most  becoming  combination  a  man 
could  wear:  Against  giving  up  his  hat  while 
in  the  house  the  handy  man  set  his  face 
stubbornly  for  a  long  time.  If,  by  chance  he 
happened  to  be  without  his  derby  and  the  door 
bell  rang,  he  hunted  up  his  hat  and  set  it  upon 
his  head  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees 
before  going  to  the  door. 

Independence,  self-assertion  made  that  derby 
their  stronghold.  Without  his  hat,  the  erst 
while  gang-leader  was  a  Samson  without  his 
locks. 

At  last,  the  hat  capitulated,  was  relegated  to 
outdoor  wear,  and  Billy  Harrigan  was  shorn  of 
his  aggressiveness.  A  child  could  play  with 
him — but  Billy  preferred  playing  with  Nancy, 
and  for  the  sake  of  the  cause  that  young  woman 
smiled  upon  him  and  gave  him  much  of  her 
attention.  Occasionally,  when  she  had  to  go 


180  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

out  in  the  evening,  Miss  Caldwell  sent  Billy  with 
her.  With  him  for  escort,  any  corner  of  the 
slums  was  safe  ground. 

One  night  he  took  her  to  a  Delancey  tene 
ment  to  see  a  sick  woman,  and  she  decided 
that  she  must  spend  the  night.  Billy  left  her, 
carrying  a  message  from  her  to  Miss  Caldwell; 
but  when,  tired  and  nervous  after  her  first 
face-to-face  meeting  with  death,  she  came 
down  the  stairs  in  the  gray  morning  light,  the 
handy  man  was  sitting  on  the  door-step. 

"Think  I  was  going 'to  leave  you  alone  in 
this  joint  ?  Not  on  your  life  ! " 

"But  you  haven't  been  here  all  night?" 

"Sure  thing !" 

"  And  my  message  ? " 

"  Sent  a  kid  with  it.     How's  Mrs.  Simmons  ? " 

"Dead."     Nancy's  voice  had  a  quiver  in  it. 

Billy  looked  at  her  sharply.  Then  he  tucked 
her  under  his  arm. 

"  You  come  along  home.  I  suppose  you 
wouldn't  hit  a  flask,  but  it'd  be  the  thing  for 
you." 

Nancy  didn't  resent  his  familiarity.  She 
was  grateful  for  it,  and  she  cried  quietly  from 
sheer  nervousness,  as  the  handy-man  led  her 
home. 

It  was  only  Billy. 


A  Disturber  of  the  Peace  181 

Late  that  afternoon,  Doctor  Braddock  going 
to  the  library  for  a  book,  saw  Nancy  dusting  a 
top  shelf,  while  Billy  held  the  ladder  and 
handed  the  books  to  her. 

The  Doctor  stood  unseen  and  studied  the 
handy-man's  upturned  face.  Then  he  looked 
at  Nancy,  and  an  idea  had  visible  birth  in  his 
brain.  His  lips  puckered  as  though  for  a 
whistle,  and  he  shook  his  head  doubtfully  as 
he  turned  away.  The  Doctor  is  a  man  himself, 
and  he  had  suddenly  had  an  illuminating  side 
light  thrown  upon  his  sociological  theories. 

Nancy  had  not  seen  the  Doctor,  and  she  had 
noticed  nothing  unusual  in  Billy's  face.  She 
had  treated  Billy  much  as  she  had  treated  the 
kindergarten  children,  and  had  taken  his 
homage  as  she  had  taken  theirs.  That  a  man's 
desire  could  cross  a  gulf  like  that  between  the 
handy  man  and  her  had  never  even  faintly 
occurred  to  her. 

She  had  smiled  upon  Billy — teased  him, 
flattered  him,  praised  him,  from  sociological 
motives.  Possibly  natural  incapacity  for  treat 
ing  a  man  in  any  other  fashion  had  something 
to  do  with  her  method,  but  she  had  not  con 
sciously  flirted  with  this  East -Side  lion.  She 
liked  Billy,  liked  him  immensely,  and  she  had 
made  that  plain  to  him.  His  logic  being 


182  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

weak  and  his  feelings  strong,  he  argued  mis 
takenly  from  the  flattering  premise. 

Any  lingering  doubt  had  been  brushed  away 
that  morning.  Hadn't  she  taken  his  arm  and 
cried  against  his  coat-sleeve,  and  hadn't  he 
patted  her  hand  encouragingly  every  now  and 
then,  without  rebuke  ?  Poor  Billy  !  the  eternal 
feminine  was  far  beyond  his  sounding. 

"Hold  it  tight." 

Nancy  was  ready  to  come  down  the  ladder. 

"Come  ahead." 

She  gathered  her  skirts  abo\it  her  and  looked 
down  at  him. 

"  It  will  crumple  up,  Billy.  I  know  it  will 
crumple  up.  The  spring's  broken." 

"Aw,  come  on!     I'm  holdin'  it." 

"It's  wobbling,  Billy.  It's  wobbling  dread 
fully.  Yes,  I'm  coming.  Oh  !— 

She  came — in  a  heap,  bringing  the  ladder 
with  her,  but  Billy  caught  her  and  held  her 
breathless,  frightened,  in  his  arms. 

Even  a  handy-man  is  human.  The  arms 
tightened,  Billy  bent  his  head  and  kissed  the 
face  so  near  his  own. 

The  next  instant,  the  width  of  the  room 
separated  Miss  Nancy  Reynolds,  of  West  7 2nd 
Street,  and  Mr.  William  Harrigan,  ex-terror  of 
the  East  Ride. 


A  Disturber  of  the  Peace  183 

"How  dare  you!  How  dare  you!"  raged 
the  girl  with  the  crimson  cheeks  and  tumbled 
hair. 

Then,  dropping  from  wrath  to  pathos: 

"Oh,  Billy,  how  could  you!"  she  sobbed. 

Billy  stood  awkward  but  unrepentant  beside 
the  fallen  ladder. 

"How  could  I  a'  done  anything  else?"  He 
asked  pertinently.  "It's  all  right,"  he  added, 
taking  a  step  toward  her.  "  I'm  on  the  square. 
You're  the  only  girl  I  ever  gave  a  damn  for, 
and  I  want  you  for  my  steady.  I  want  you  to 
marry  me.  Don't  you  see?" 

Nancy  saw  clearly,  very  clearly,  and  the 
up-town  man  with  a  distaste  for  sisters  was 
avenged. 

"Will  ye?     Will  ye?" 

He  was  leaning  toward  her  now. 

"  Oh,  you  haven't  understood !  I  never 
dreamed  of  you  feeling  this  way.  I  never 
meant  to  make  you  care— 

"Never  meant  to?"  There  was  a  note  in 
Billy's  voice  that  had  faded  out  of  the  voice 
of  the  handy-man. 

"  D'ye  mean  you've  been  foolin'  me  all  the 
time?" 

"  I  never  thought  about  your — your  loving 
me." 


184  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

"What'd  ye  think  was  the  game?  D'ye 
suppose  I  was  stuck  on  housework?  D'ye 
think  I  was  washin'  windows  fer  love  of  soap 
suds  ?" 

"  But  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  you'd— 

"Ye  thought  I  was  a  dough-man,  likely — 
thought  ye  could  laugh  at  me  and  say  sweet 
things  to  me  and  make  eyes  at  me,  and  I'd 
never  notice — thought  I  was  clear  out  of  your 
class,  didn't  ye?" 

The  old,  rough,  dominant  note  that  had 
belonged  to  the  voice  of  Bill  Harrigan,  gang- 
leader,  was  growing  stronger  and  stronger. 

"An'  ye  don't  want  any  truck  with  me,  eh? 
You're  all  through  ?  Sort  of  a  Chinese  Sunday- 
School  proposition,  an'  me  for  the  Chink?" 

"Billy,  don't — please  don't!  I  do  like  you. 
You've  been  so  good  to  me  and  I've  depended 
on  you,  but  I  couldn't  think  about  you 
except  as  a  good  friend.  I  never  thought 
of  your  falling  in  love  with  me.  Truly 
I  didn't,  Billy.  Please  be  friends — please  be 
friends." 

"Aw,  hell!"  commented  Billy. 

She  heard  the  front  door  slam  behind  him. 

The  settlement  had  lost  a  handy-man. 

The  loss  of  the  settlement  was  the  gain  of 
the  gang,  and  the  night  when  the  Harrigan 


A  Disturber  of  the  Peace  185 

returned  to  his  own,  will  long  be  remembered 
on  the  East  Side. 

Billy  made  his  way  to  Smooth  Mike's,  and 
accumulated  what  in  the  vernacular  is  called 
a  load.  Then  he  sent  out  a  rallying  call,  and 
loyal  followers,  overlooking  his  temporary  fall 
from  grace  into  the  paths  of  sobriety  and 
sociology,  gathered  round  his  standard. 

After  a  protracted  period  for  rest  and  re 
freshment,  the  Goerck  Street  gang,  under  their 
old  leader,  started  out  to  make  up  for  lost 
time. 

As  a  starter,  they  cleaned  out  Durfy's  Hall, 
where  the  Cherry  Street  boys  were  having  a 
dance;  and  this  preliminary  whirl  proved  so 
spectacular  that  it  not  only  began,  but  closed 
the  programme. 

Eight  of  the  gang  landed  in  jail,  five  went  to 
the  hospital,  the  rest  dispersed  without  leaving 
addresses.  Billy  Harrigan  was  among  the 
hospital  contingent,  with  a  bullet  through  his 
shoulder  and  a  knife  slash  in  his  arm,  but  his 
vocal  organs  were  not  affected,  and  when 
Doctor  Braddock  hurried  to  see  the  one-time 
handy-man,  Billy  expressed  his  opinion  of 
toffs  in  general  and  of  sociologists  in  particular, 
with  a  force  and  fluency  that  did  credit  to  his 
early  training. 


186  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

Out  of  the  harvest  of  eloquence,  the  Doctor 
gleaned  certain  straws  of  suggestion  which 
gave  him  a  clue  to  the  situation. 

His  surprise  was  not  so  great  as  was  Miss 
Caldwell's  when  their  star  assistant,  pale  as  to 
lips  and  heavy  as  to  eyes,  presented  herself  in 
the  office  that  evening  and  announced  her 
determination  to  give  up  settlement  work. 

"  I'm  not  fit  for  it,"  was  the  girl's  only  answer 
to  all  argument. 

"And  she  was  so  successful,  so  brilliantly 
successful!"  Miss  Caldwell  said  in  a  puzzled 
tone  after  Nancy  had  gone  to  her  room. 

"But  possibly  a  trifle  too  stimulating," 
commented  Doctor  Braddock,  with  a  smile 
which  his  fellow-workers  did  not  understand. 


THE  LITTLEST  SISTER 


THE   LITTLEST  SISTER 

THE  crowd  had  melted  away.  Madame 
dozed  behind  the  cashier's  desk.  Two 
or  three  waiters  chattered  in  low 
tones  in  the  rear  of  the  room.  A  huge  black 
cat  wandered  in  and  out  among  the  table-legs, 
occasionally  pausing  to  rub  languidly  against 
one  of  them. 

At  a  table  near  the  window  two  men  lingered 
over  their  wine  and  cigars,  with  their  elbows 
on  the  table,  and  in  their  faces  the  serenity 
that  marks  the  after-dinner  hour  of  the  man 
who  has  confidence  in  his  digestion. 

"It  is  the  only  good  wine  in  the  cellars," 
said  the  little  French  doctor,  lifting  his  glass 
and  eying  the  Burgundy  in  it  with  cheerful 
approval. 

"In  ten  years  I  have  tried  them  all.  I 
still  live.  Mon  Dieu!  That  is  to  the  credit 
of  my  parents,  who  presented  me  with  my 
constitution.  But  this  Burgundy — keep  the 
number  in  your  heart,  mon  gar $ on." 

The  artist  did  not  listen.  He  was  in  a 
sentimental  mood.  That  was  his  tribute  to 

189 


igo  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

the  Burgundy.  Still,  wine  need  not  be  potent 
to  stir  the  artist  to  sentimentality.  He  oozes 
it  at  the  pores.  His  father  presented  him  with 
temperament  instead  of  constitution. 

The  doctor,  too,  had  temperament — being 
a  Frenchman.  That  was  why  an  acquaintance 
begun  on  a  Washington  Park  bench  had  led  to 
friendship.  But,  in  the  doctor's  case,  years 
had  tempered  sentiment  with  cynicism.  His 
moods  were  never  maudlin. 

The  artist  raised  his  glass.  "Woman!"  he 
said  softly. 

The  doctor  drank  with  him.  "  But  it  is 
a  foolish  toast,"  he  commented  as  he  wiped 
his  lips.  '"A  woman,  the  woman' — that  is 
rational,  but '  Woman  ! '  no,  man  gar f on.  There 
is  no  woman.  There  are  women — generalisa 
tions  don't  apply  to  the  sex.  There  are  good 
women,  there  are  bad  women — but  the  ways 
of  being  good  and  of  being  bad,  there  is  no 
end  to  them.  A  woman's  heart  writes  her 
creed.  Who  shall  say  what  is  good,  what  is 
bad?  Not  I.  My  wife? — yes;  but  my  wife 
does  not  fear  responsibility.  She  damns  with 
a  verve,  with  a  liberality.  But  it  is  superb. 
Me — I  say,  for  what  does  le  bon  Dieu  employ 
the  blessed  St.  Pierre  and  a  recording  angel? 
It  is  not  for  me  to  guard  the  golden  gates. 


The  Littlest  Sister  191 

"There  was  the  little  sister.  My  wife  says 
she  is  damned.  I — I  see  that  she  is  happy. 
C'est  tout — to  be  happy.  Afterward?  I  do 
not  know.  It  is  my  wife  who  has  the  infor 
mation." 

The  Frenchman  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
went  back  to  the  Burgundy.  His  wife  is 
strenuous  and  voluble.  Luckily,  she  is  married 
to  a  philosopher. 

"The  little  sister,"  echoed  the  artist,  catching 
hungrily  at  a  suggestion  of  romance,  "who 
was  the  little  sister,  mon  ami? ' ' 

"  I  have  not  told  you  ?  No  ?  But  I  thought 
I  had  told  you  all  my  stories — all.  A  la  bonne 
heure!  I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  Claire,  la 
plus  petite  sceur — the  littlest  sister,  you  would 
say,  is  it  not  ? 

"She  was  beautiful — but  of  a  beauty,  mon 
gar '$ on!" 

The  artist  rested  his  chin  comfortably  upon 
his  hands.  The  story  began  well.  He  wor 
shipped  beauty,  and  this  was  the  second  bottle 
of  Burgundy. 

"Beautiful  as  an  angel,"  went  on  the  doctor, 
with  Gallic  enthusiasm,  "but  not  an  angel. 
No — human,  quite  human.  Slender  and  white 
and  fair.  She  had  hair  all  netted  with  sun 
beams — but  it  was  under  her  veil  at  first.  It 


192  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

was  with  her  great  blue  eyes  and  her  lips,  and 
the  curve  of  her  chin,  and  her  voice  that  Jean 
fell  in  love.  He  did  not  need  the  hair.  But 
a  woman's  hair,  mon  gar  f  on!  For  me,  a 
woman's  hair— 

The  artist  moved  restlessly. 

"Why  a  veil?"  he  asked. 

The  doctor  looked  surprised. 

"Ah,  I  have  not  told  you?  She  was  a  nun. 
But,  yes,  one  of  Us  petites  sceurs  blanches.  It 
is  a  most  holy  order,  the  most  severe  in  the 
world,  they  say.  They  dress  all  in  white,  the 
little  sisters,  and  they  never  leave  the  con 
vent  after  they  go  in  through  the  door. 
They  sleep  in  their  coffins.  They  eat  no 
meat.  They  are  sworn  never  to  look  upon 
the  face  of  a  man.  They  flog  themselves 
and  do  penance.  They  pray,  pray,  pray ! 
It  is  gay,  is  it  not?  It  is  said — I  repeat 
it,  but  I  do  not  believe  —  it  is  said  that 
also  the  little  sisters  never  speak.  Mon  Dieu, 
it  is  too  much!  For  the  rest,  yes;  but  a 
houseful  of  silent  women?  No.  When  one 
speaks  of  miracles,  moi,  je  m'en  passe,  one 
must  be  reasonable. 

"There  was  a  convent  of  the  order  in  St. 
Quentin.  You  do  not  know  St.  Quentin,  mon 
ami?  Oh,  it  is  pity!" 


The  Littlest  Sister  193 

The  doctor  took  up  his  glass  solemnly  and 
rose  to  his  feet. 

"France!"  he  said.  It  was  warmer,  more 
reverent  than  the  artist's  "Woman  !" 

They  drank  the  toast  standing,  then  the 
doctor  took  up  his  story. 

"It  was  a  thing  to  be  proud  of,  so  holy  a 
flock.  We  were  proud.  Yes.  And  the  women 
gossiped.  The  men  ?  They  may  have  listened. 
There  was  only  Sceur  Angela,  who  came  and 
went  between  the  town  and  the  convent. 
She  was  not  silent,  Soeur  Angela.  The  fastings 
had  not  made  her  thin.  Sanctity  had  not 
made  her  beautiful.  She  was  old  and  fat.  It 
must  have  been  a  large  coffin  in  which  Sceur 
Angela  slept.  She  talked  in  the  market-place. 
It  was  only  for  the  marketing  that  she  left  the 
convent.  And  every  one  asked  questions. 
It  was  so  the  gossip  found  food.  The  Mother 
Superior  had  been  a  duchess — a  most  worldly 
duchess.  She  had  lived  while  she  lived,  that 
holy  lady.  Then  she  turned  dfuotte.  It  is  so 
with  French  women.  It  is  to  strike  a  balance. 
She  had  been  very  beautiful.  There  had  been 
tales.  Oh,  we  had  heard  even  in  St.  Quentin ! 
But  now  she  was  a  saint  and  cold — Sceur 
Angela  shivered  when  she  spoke  of  that  cold. 

"And  there  was  Claire,  la  plus  petite  s&ur. 


194  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

All  the  town  loved  Claire  as  they  feared  the 
duchess,  though  no  one  had  seen  either.  One 
day  a  baby  had  been  left  at  the  convent  door. 
The  sisters  took  it  in.  That  was  Claire.  She 
grew  up  there  behind  the  walls,  and  she  was 
happy — the  only  young,  happy  thing  in  the 
place.  The  sisters  adored  her.  Even  the 
Reverend  Mother  thawed  for  her,  and  Sceur 
Angela  wept  when  the  spoke  of  her.  It  was  a 
good  soul,  but  Sceur  Angela  was  not  beautiful 
when  she  wept. 

"It  is  an  angel,'  she  would  sob,  'but  of  a 
sweetness,  of  a  beauty  like  a  flower  in  the  wind, 
and  with  a  voice !  A  voice  of  gold !  And  for 
a  smile — but  it  is  to  see  open  the  gates  of 
paradise.' 

"So  we  loved  the  littlest  sister,  and  we 
young  men  dreamed.  I  was  young  then, 
mon  ami.  It  was  sacrilege  to  dream,  but  when 
one  is  young — ah,  mon  Dieu,  when  one  is 
young ! 

"It  was  in  1870  that  it  happened.  France 
was  in  a  frenzy  then.  So  long  ago.  Yes. 
But  France  is  in  a  frenzy  now,  when  she  re 
members.  We  in  St.  Quentin  heard  the  echo 
of  'A  Berlin!'  Then  we  heard  rumours. 
We  heard  facts.  We  questioned,  doubted, 
raved.  The  Prussians  were  coming.  It  was 


The  Littlest  Sister  195 

true.  We  believed  at  last.  Eh  bien,  let  them 
come  !  We  were  Frenchmen.  We  would  show 
the  Prussian  pigs  how  a  Frenchman  could 
defend  his  home.  Ah,  les  beaux  jours  \  St. 
Quentin  was  a  walled  town.  Ammunition  was 
stored,  fortifications  were  strengthened.  There 
were  crowds  in  the  streets.  There  were  speeches 
in  the  caf<?s — but  such  speeches,  mon  gargon! 
It  was  fire  !  It  was  thunder !  Then,  one  day 
there  were  shells  in  the  streets.  It  was  the 
town  that  burned,  not  the  speeches. 

"A  demand  for  surrender.  We  laughed. 
The  Prussians  shelled  the  town.  The  women 
and  children  were  ordered  to  the  casemates. 
Then,  when  they  were  safe,  some  one  said, 
'  But  the  little  sisters  ? '  We  had  forgotten 
them.  They  were  not  of  the  world.  This 
was  a  worldly  crisis.  We  had  forgotten,  and 
we  were  ashamed. 

"Jean  Baudolf  was  sent  to  bring  them. 
He  was  a  butcher,  young  Jean,  and  handsome 
— an  eye,  a  leg !  We  had  no  chance,  we  others 
with  the  girls.  It  was  Jean  here,  Jean  there — 
and  we  liked  him  for  all  that.  Such  a  devil 
of  a  fellow,  so  gay,  so  goodhearted,  so  reckless. 
He  was  popular,  that  rascal  Jean. 

"He  ran  up  the  hill,  whistling.  I  can  hear 
him  now.  There  was  danger.  He  whistled 


196  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

more  gaily  for  that.  He  knocked  at  the  convent 
gate.  The  wicket  opened.  Even  Sceur  Angela 
smiled  at  Jean. 

'"The  Prusians  shell  the  city,  ma  s&ur,'  he 
said. 

'"Yes  my  brother.' 

" '  You  are  to  come  to  the  casemates.' 

'"It  is  impossible,  my  brother.' 

"  '  But  you  are  in  danger.' 

"'  It  is  as  God  wills,  my  brother.' 

"The  wicket  snapped  shut.  Jean  was  left 
plants  la.  He  swore  at  the  blank,  white  wall. 
Then  he  came  down  the  hill  and  told  us.  Mon 
Dieu,  what  excitement,  what  sputtering !  The 
women  said  nothing  could  be  done.  The  men 
said  something  should  be  done.  Frenchmen 
to  see  thirty  women  killed,  even  if  the  women 
wished  it  so  !  Never  ! 

"Monsieur  le  Maire  was  having  his  shoulder 
tied  up.  It  is  not  easy  for  a  five-foot  man, 
with  a  round  belly,  to  look  warlike,  mon  cher. 
Our  mayor  did  it.  Ah,  but  he  was  magnificent, 
that  mayor ! 

"We  had  never  known  him  before.  He 
could  drink.  He  could  speak,  but  it  was  in 
danger  that  he  was  superb.  I  take  off  my 
hat  to  his  memory.  He  is  dead — of  a  fit. 
There  had  been  a  banquet.  Ah,  un  brave, 


The  Littlest  Sister  197 

un  brave,  in  peace  or  in  war,  le  maire  de  St. 
Quentin. 

"  It  was  he  who  spoke.  '  sacre  nom  de  mon 
onclef '  he  roared.  '  We  will  bring  them  whether 
they  will  or  not.' 

"He  went  up  the  hill.  We  followed,  we 
others.  He  knocked  at  the  wicket.  It  opened. 
It  shut.  Monsieur  le  Maire  grew  purple  in  the 
face.  He  lifted  a  fat  leg.  Bang !  The  door 
groaned.  Bang !  The  second  kick  broke  the 
lock.  We  tumbled  into  the  courtyard.  There 
was  service  in  the  chapel.  The  music  droned 
on.  There  was  a  roar,  a  crash,  a  sound  of 
splintering  wood  and  glass.  A  shell  had  fallen 
in  the  dormitory.  The  chant  wavered.  It 
broke.  Then  it  went  on  again.  Oh,  ces 
femmes,  ces  femmes !  How  brave  they  can  be 
— in  a  foolish  cause  ! 

"We  ran  to  the  chapel  door.  We  took  off 
our  hats  and  stood  there.  The  little  sisters 
fluttered  like  a  flock  of  doves.  They  drew 
their  veils  across  their  faces  and  huddled  behind 
the  Mother  Superior.  She  came  down  the  aisle 
toward  us.  I  wanted  to  run.  Prussians,  yes. 
A  man  may  face  Prussians,  but  this  was 
different. 

"'Messieurs,'  she  said,  'this  is  sacrilege.' 

"  Oh,  mon  ami :    That  voice  !     I  shiver  now. 


198  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

It  was  of  ice — of  ice,  but  of  fire,  too.  We 
trembled,  we  faltered.  Monsieur  le  Maire  stood 
fast.  Ah,  un  brave!  un  brave! 

"Ma  mt>re,'  he  said,  you  must  come  with 
us.  We  have  entreated.  Now  we  com 
mand.' 

"And  only  five  feet  tall,  that  mayor,  man 
garqon:  A  little  round  man,  at  whom  we  had 
always  smiled. 

'"You  must  come,'  he  said. 

"Must,'  she  repeated.  Ugh!  It  was  to 
freeze  the  marrow  in  one's  bones.  She  towered, 
mon  ami.  She  trembled  with  rage. 

"Go,'  she  said,  lifting  her  hand.  'Go, 
before  the  judgment  of  heaven  falls  upon  your 
impious  heads.'  It  was  awful.  It  made  my 
hair  to  rise  slowly,  slowly. 

" '  Come,'  said  Monsieur  le  Maire.  He  swelled 
with  determination.  '  Come,  before  the  Prussian 
shells  fall  upon  your  foolish  head ! ' 

"  He  grabbed  her,  mon  garfon.  But  yes ! 
He  grabbed  the  Reverend  Mother  around  the 
middle.  She  was  heavy,  but  he  was  strong. 
He  lifted  her.  He  carried  her,  kicking  and 
struggling.  No  thunderbolt  fell.  We  plucked 
up  heart.  Each  man  seized  a  woman.  Mon 
Dieu,  how  they  wriggled,  how  they  screamed ! 
We  carried  them  across  the  courtyard  through 


The  Littlest  Sister  199 

the  door,  into  the  streets.  Some  were  quiet, 
after  the  first. 

"'To  feel  a  man's  arms  round  her,  a  man's 
breath  on  her  cheek,  that  might  make  ghosts 
rise  and  stir  in  many  a  nun's  heart.  N'est-ce 
pas,  man  ami?  What  they  felt,  those  nuns,  it 
would  be  interesting  to  know. 

"But  the  Reverend  Mother!  What  she 
felt  was  rage.  She  could  have  killed.  It  was 
but  lacquer,  the  saint liness.  Scratch  it.  The 
duchess  showed  through. 

"  If  we  must  go,  let  us  go  with  dignity,'  she 
said  to  the  mayor,  who  purled  and  panted,  but 
held  her  fast.  '  We  will  go.  Do  not  touch  us  ! 
Cowards,  who  insult  women ! '  It  was  to 
blush,  mon  ami,  but  we  had  been  right,  and 
we  had  had  our  way.  We  were  gay,  even  when 
the  ice  crackled  in  the  speech  of  the  duchess. 

"We  set  the  nuns  on  their  feet.  They 
scurried  to  the  Reverend  Mother.  They  went 
down  the  hill  before  us.  It  was  like  a  garden 
of  lilies  swayed  by  the  breeze,  save  for  Sceur 
Angela.  She  was  a  sturdy  flower,  Sceur  Angela. 
It  would  be  a  hurricane  that  could  sway  her. 
The  blacksmith  had  carried  her.  He  was  a 
Hercules,  that  young  blacksmith,  but  when  she 
walked  again  he  wiped  the  sweat  from  his 
brow.  He  fished  a  flask  from  his  pocket. 


200  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

"And  Jean?  His  arms  were  not  tired.  He 
had  no  flask.  Yet  his  eyes  were  the  eyes  of  a 
man  who  drinks  till  the  fire  is  in  his  veins. 

"  It  was  the  little  Claire  whom  he  had  carried. 
She  was  a  feather-weight.  She  had  not 
struggled.  She  lay  quite  still.  Her  veil  had 
blown  back.  She  looked  up  into  Jean's  eyes. 
All  blushes,  yes.  She  shut  her  eyes.  She 
opened  them.  They  answered  his.  Pouf !  It 
is  like  that  sometimes,  mon  gar $ on.  A  girl,  a 
lad,  a  moment.  It  is  done.  The  years  cannot 
change  it.  So ! 

"  Me — I  studied  the  dot;  but  once  there  was  a 
little  milliner.  I  was  but  twenty — zut !  it  is 
not  my  story  that  I  tell,  but  Jean's.  He 
sighed  when  he  put  her  down.  She  sighed. 
She  drew  her  rumpled  veil,  but  she  gave  him 
her  eyes  first.  She  clung  close  to  the  Reverend 
Mother.  She  was  frightened  by  the  thing  she 
felt.  She  has  told  me  since,  and  she  blushed 
when  she  told. 

"  In  the  casemates  every  one  was  waiting. 
There  was  respect.  There  was  consideration. 
The  sisters  sat  in  a  shadowy  corner,  with  their 
heads  bowed,  their  hands  before  their  faces. 
There  was  a  murmur  of  prayer.  When  food 
was  offered,  they  refused ;  but  the  second  day 
the  Reverend  Mother  listened  to  reason — and 


The  Littlest  Sister  201 

hunger.  'Eat,  my  children/  she  said.  They 
ate  bread  and  water.  At  first  the  hands  were 
pressed  tightly  over  the  eyes.  Then  the  slim 
fingers  slipped  apart,  slowly,  slowly.  Wounded 
men  were  brought  in.  There  was  care,  there 
was  grief,  and  finally  the  Reverend  Mother 
spoke : 

'"It  is  not  our  will  that  brings  us  here,  my 
children.  God  will  forgive  our  broken  vows. 
There  is  work  to  be  done.  We  will  do  it.' 

"  So  they  came  out  from  the  corner,  and 
they  nursed  the  wounded.  Ah,  that  duchess ! 
What  a  woman  she  must  have  been  before 
she  turned  saint.  I  had  a  scratch.  She 
bound  it.  I  understood  that  she  must  have 
much  to  repent. 

"  But  one  day  it  was  Jean  who  was  carried 
in,  very  white,  very  still,  a  hole  in  his  shoulder, 
the  blood  flowing  fast.  And  the  littlest  sister 
knew  before  the  men  who  carried  him  had 
crossed  the  doorstep.  I  saw  her.  Her 
face  went  white — but  white  like  her  veil — and 
there  was  a  live  thing  in  her  eyes.  It  was 
fear.  She  went  quickly,  with  bandages  in  her 
hands.  She  leaned  over  him.  He  opened  his 
eyes. 

' '  Am  I  then  already  dead  and  in  paradise  ? ' 
he  said. 


2O2  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

"Ah,  that  Jean — but  he  had  the  tongue,  the 
eyes,  and  this  time  he  had  the  heart. 

"Eh  bicn,  the  story  is  told,  mon  garfon. 
What  end  could  there  be?  The  Prussians 
marched  into  the  town.  We  were  brave. 
They,  too,  were  brave,  and  they  were  strong. 
They  marched  out  again.  It  was  not  only 
the  Prussians  who  had  besieged.  It  was  not 
only  St.  Quentin  that  had  surrendered. 

"The  life  of  the  town  flowed  back  into  its 
old  channels,  but  there  were  gaps,  there  were 
changes. 

"The  Reverend  Mother  gathered  her  flock 
around  her  and  led  them  back  to  the  convent, 
but  there  were  only  twenty-nine  who  went. 

"The  littlest  sister  would  not  go.  She  was 
pale.  She  was  sad.  She  wept;  but  she  shook 
her  head.  The  Reverend  Mother  commanded. 
She  entreated.  She  persuaded.  It  was  quite 
useless. 

111  Je  I'aime,'  the  littlest  sister  said. 

"'I  love  him.'  That  was  all.  That  was 
enough.  It  was  answer  to  every  argument. 
The  thing  was  quite  simple.  Women  are  like 
that,  mon  ami. 

"And  the  duchess  understood — though  she 
had  been  dead  so  long. 

"  She   took   the    littlest    sister's    hands   and 


The  Littlest  Sister  203 

looked  down  at  her.  I  saw  the  good-bye. 
Cold?  The  coldness  was  like  the  saintliness, 
mon  clier — lacquer,  only  lacquer.  She  loved 
the  little  sister.  She  would  have  kept  her  safe 
from  world  pain,  but  she  understood. 

"Ah,  what  a  woman — if  she  had  not  been  a 
saint ! 

"  She  saw  the  ghosts  of  her  own  love,  of  her 
own  youth,  in  the  little  sister's  face.  Yes,  I 
think  she  saw  that.  It  was  in  her  eyes.  It 
was  on  her  lips,  and  the  duchess  sighed;  but 
the  Mother  Superior — that  was  another  woman. 
She  drew  her  veil.  She  went  up  the  rugged 
path  to  the  convent.  The  door  in  the  wall 
opened.  It  shut.  What  happiness  some  men 
miss  in  order  that  we  may  have  saints.  Eh, 
mon  cher? 

"The  littlest  sister,  too,  had  chosen.  She 
stayed  in  the  wicked  world  and  married  Jean 
the  butcher.  Happy  as  a  bird,  mon  gargon. 
Damned  ?  I  do  not  know.  It  is  my  wife  who 
says  it." 


WOMEN  ARE   MADE  LIKE  THAT 


WOMEN   ARE  MADE   LIKE  THAT 

THE  cab  rattled  through  the  narrow 
streets  of  the  Latin  Quarter,  and 
Bruce  Morgan  stared  out  at  the  dingy 
buildings  and  the  motley  crowd  on  the  pave 
ments.  In  an  idle,  unemphatic  way,  he  was 
hating  it  all.  The  gospel  of  dirt  as  preached  by 
unappreciated  genius  had  never  attracted  him. 
Save  as  an  unavoidable  adjunct  of  the  noble 
game  of  football,  he  strenuously  objected  to 
dirt  in  any  form,  mental,  moral,  or  physical. 
He  was  not  remarkably  good,  but  he  was  clean, 
and  that  is  the  next  best  thing,  if  not  a  synonym. 

During  his  two  years  in  Paris  he  had  occupied 
bachelor  apartments  in  that  quarter  of  broad 
spaces  and  flooding  sunshine  which  the  dwellers 
on  the  Rive  Gauche  call  banal,  and  in  which  those 
good  Americans  who  go  to  Paris  before  they 
die,  but  who  are  studying  nothing  in  particular, 
save  the  gentle  art  of  enjoying  life — emulate 
the  lilies  of  the  field. 

There  he  had  found  a  bath-tub  to  his  liking, 
so  there  he  raised  his  Ebenezer  and  installed 
his  Lares  and  Penates.  To  be  more  accurate, 

207 


208  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

he  paid  the  rent,  and  Watkins,  the  valet,  at 
tended  to  the  Lares  and  Penates. 

Life  went  very  well  then,  and  the  well- 
groomed  and  cheerful  young  American  played 
among  the  lilies  of  the  American  Quarter 
contentedly.  He  didn't  even  make  frequent 
excursions  into  unkempt  Bohemia  until  after 
he  met  Elizabeth.  After  that  he  learned  the 
Latin  Quarter.  Not  that  he  grew  fonder  of  it. 
On  the  contrary.  But  he  grew  more  fond  of 
Elizabeth,  and  when  he  wanted  anything,  a 
mere  matter  of  local  colour  could  not  dis 
courage  him. 

As  for  Elizabeth,  she  was  what  the  wondering 
bourgeoisie  who  leaven  the  Latin  Quarter  call 
"une  artiste  curag/e";  but  she  had  lived  in  a 
cluttered  studio  on  the  Rue  Vavin,  and  had 
eaten  her  meals  at  a  cremerie  for  three  years. 
Her  artistic  fervour  was  not  waning,  but  the 
magic  light  that  never  was  on  Bohemia  was 
dimmed  a  trifle  to  her  vision.  A  freshly 
washed,  immaculately  clad,  good-looking  young 
man,  about  whom  clung  an  odour  of  jockey- 
club  rather  than  turpentine,  who  rode  in  cabs 
and  scattered  violets  and  roses,  and  appeared 
to  have  no  secret  sorrows  nor  thwarted  am 
bitions,  appealed  to  her  as  inartistic  but 
distinctly  comforting. 


Women  Are  Made  Like  That  209 

So  he  came  to  the  studio  often.  One  day  a 
miracle  happened,  and  after  that  he  came 
oftener. 

Elizabeth  Russell  had  a  reputation  in  the 
Quarter  for  dignity  of  a  rather  glacial  variety. 
Her  beauty  won  her  adorers,  and  her  coldness 
drove  them  to  despair — which  was  all  according 
to  orthodox  poetic  tradition.  Her  French 
lovers  appreciated  the  romantic  fitness  and 
possibilities  of  the  situation.  They  wrote 
poems  to  "La  belle  dame  sans  merci." 

The  American  and  English  victims  of  Eliza 
beth's  beaux  yeux,  being  hampered  by  Anglo- 
Saxon  secret iveness,  did  not  write  poetry. 
They  only  tramped  innumerable  miles  and 
came  home  to  swear  savagely  at  the  concierge 
and  kick  the  cat. 

When  severity  wrought  such  havoc,  what 
would  have  been  the  casualties  had  one  guessed 
that  this  self-sufficient  young  woman  had 
moments  when,  without  warning,  her  dignity 
crumpled  up  like  a  pricked  balloon,  and  she 
became,  for  the  length  of  a  woman's  mood,  the 
most  appealing,  irresponsible  of  creatures? 

Bruce  Morgan  had  seen  the  metamorphosis, 
and  had  promptly  done  what  any  normal  and 
love-ridden  man  would  have  done,  but  what  a 
moment  earlier  would  have  seemed  absurdly 


210  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

impossible.  His  arms  went  round  her,  his  lips 
touched  her  waving  brown  hair,  and  he  held 
her  close,  while,  in  true  woman  fashion,  she  hid 
her  face  against  his  coat  collar  and  cried  softly. 
He  had  a  bewildered  conviction  that  his  world 
was  toppling  about  him;  but  he  was  quite 
willing  it  should  topple,  so  long  as  the  break-up 
threw  the  inaccessible  into  his  arms.  She 
didn't  stay  there  long.  The  moment  was  too 
good  to  last.  Before  he  had  fairly  caught  his 
breath,  she  was  standing  across  the  table  from 
him,  a  bit  pink  as  to  eyelids  and  cheeks,  a  trifle 
rumpled  as  to  hair,  but  smiling,  self-contained, 
slightly  defiant.  And  he,  being  a  wise  young 
man  in  his  generation,  said  no  word  of  the 
sudden  surrender,  pressed  his  advantage  no 
further,  but  spoke  of  home  letters  and  the 
weather.  Few  men  would  have  understood. 
He  was  gentler  with  her  after  that,  more 
patient  with  her  egoism,  more  in  sympathy 
with  her  work.  Personally,  he  had  never 
thought  much  of  her  talent.  He  knew  some 
thing  of  art,  though  he  had  never  joined  the 
noble  army  of  aspiring  young  artists.  His 
income  was  large,  and  he  preferred  buying  good 
pictures  to  painting  poor  ones — which  may 
be  Philistinism  in  the  eyes  of  the  Latin  Quarter 
and  Montmartre,  but  has  its  elements  of  sanity 


Women  Are  Made  Like  That  211 

and  altruism.  He  knew  quite  well  that  before 
a  word  of  praise  from  one  of  his  lady's  masters 
his  warmest  love-words  would  pale  into  insig 
nificance,  and  that  if  his  eternal  absence  could 
improve  her  values,  she  would  set  him  adrift 
with  cheerful  unconcern.  Still,  he  was  dis 
tinctly  optimistic  about  his  love-affair.  He 
did  not  believe  in  the  artistic  future  of  the  girl 
he  loved.  He  had  seen  enthusiasm  wane 
before  failure,  and  heart -hunger  creep  into  the 
place  of  ambition.  Then,  too,  he  had  the 
memory  of  the  metamorphosis  to  encourage 
him,  so  he  waited  patiently. 

The  waiting  had  lasted  for  months  before 
the  January  evening  when  his  cab  scurried 
along  toward  the  Rue  Vavin. 

He  entered  the  narrow  hallway,  climbed  the 
dark  stairs,  and  tapped  on  the  studio  door, 
which  was  slightly  ajar.  Through  the  crack 
in  the  door  he  could  see  that  the  studio  was 
dark,  save  for  the  glow  from  a  little  open  stove. 
Evidently  Elizabeth  had  gone  out  for  dinner. 
He  tucked  a  card  under  the  door  and  was 
turning  away,  when  he  heard  a  muffled  sound 
from  the  studio.  He  wheeled  sharply  and  stood 
listening.  The  sound  was  repeated,  and  the 
man's  lips  tightened.  Some  one  was  sobbing 
in  the  darkened  room.  For  a  moment  he 


212  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

hesitated.  Then  he  pushed  the  door  open  and 
entered.  After  the  darkness  of  the  hall,  the 
fire  glow  was  confusing,  and  the  intruder  stood 
peering  through  the  shadows.  A  dry  sob, 
from  the  direction  of  the  divan,  drew  his  eyes 
toward  that  corner  of  the  room,  and  he  made 
out  a  forlorn  little  figure  curled  up  among  the 
pillows.  His  hands  clinched  at  his  sides,  but 
his  voice  was  very  quiet :  "Little  girl, what  is  it  ?" 

The  tone  was  a  caress.  Elizabeth  sat  up 
suddenly,  and  looked  at  him  with  wet,  fright 
ened  eyes.  The  white  quivering  face  sent  a 
great  flood  of  tenderness  surging  through  him. 

"Oh,  it  is  you!  You  frightened  me,"  she 
said  with  a  pitiful  attempt  at  a  smile.  Then 
she  dropped  down  among  the  pillows  again  and 
hid  her  face.  In  an  instant  he  was  on  his 
knees  beside  the  couch. 

"  My  little  girl !  my  poor  little  girl.  Cry  it 
all  out  here."  He  drew  her  into  his  arms  and 
kissed  her  wet  cheeks  and  murmured  fond, 
foolish  love-words,  comforting  her,  as  one 
would  comfort  a  child  whose  heart  was  sore; 
and  Elizabeth,  the  severe,  clung  to  him, 
sobbing,  until  his  strength  and  tenderness 
quieted  her,  and  the  sobs  died  into  stifled 
sighs. 

At  last,  when  even  the  sighs  were  hushed, 


Women  Are  Made  Like  That  213 

she  looked  up  at  him,  in  a  half -startled  fashion, 
and  he  put  her  back  among  the  pillows,  but  his 
arm  was  still  under  her  head,  and  his  right 
hand  stroked  her  hair. 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,  sweetheart,"  he  said, 
gently. 

She  told  him.  The  Latin  Quarter  is  full  of 
such  stories  of  young  enthusiasm,  vaulting 
ambition,  self-confidence,  home  disapproval, 
and  failure.  Her  mother  had  believed  in  her 
talent ;  her  New  York  teachers  had  encouraged 
her.  Then  the  mother  died,  and  a  matter-of- 
fact  step-father  pooh-poohed  artistic  aspira 
tion.  She  thought  herself  persecuted  for  art's 
sake,  and  defied  authority.  A  little  money 
left  her  by  her  mother  would  take  her  to 
Paris  and  keep  her  there  for  two  or  three  years. 
There  was  a  decisive  and  stormy  break  with 
the  step-father,  conscientious  enough,  but  in 
tolerant  of  what  he  thought  idiotic  folly.  Then 
Paris,  and  the  intoxication  of  realised  longing, 
of  life  in  the  artists'  quarter,  and  study  in  the 
French  schools. 

At  first  it  was  all  she  had  hoped.  She  had 
money  enough  for  all  her  needs.  The  second 
year  went  by  less  buoyantly.  She  did  not 
make  the  progress  for  which  she  had  hoped. 
She  was  not  the  important  figure  in  the  atelier 


214  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

that  she  had  been  in  the  New  York  class.  No 
one  paid  much  attention  to  her,  and  the  masters 
were  brutally  frank.  They  admitted  that  she 
had  a  certain  facility  in  line,  but  her  colour, 
her  values — atrocious  !  "  Wooden,"  was  L —  — 's 
favourite  comment  as  he  stopped  beside  her 
easel.  Still  she  worked,  worked,  worked.  In 
the  spring  her  health  gave  out.  She  went  to 
the  country  and  lost  two  months.  Then  she 
came  back  and  went  to  work,  more  furiously 
than  before,  but  she  did  not  get  back  the  old 
strength. 

"Paint  poison!"  said  the  English  doctor 
whom  she  consulted.  "  Stop  living  in  an  air 
tight,  turpentine-saturated  hole.  Stop  work. 
Don't  worry.  Eat  three  square  meals  a  day. 
Rest — and  you'll  come  out  all  right.  It  is  a 
woman-killer,  that  studio  life  !" 

She  tried  for  the  salon  that  year.  Her 
portrait  wasn't  worth  consideration.  "Wooden," 

reiterated  L ,  when  he  spoke  to  her  about 

it ;  but  she  worked*  on.  Then  the  money  began 
to  give  out,  and  she  realised  that  what  she 
was  to  do  must  be  done  quickly.  There  could 
be  no  going  home.  She  must  work  harder, 
and  cut  down  expenses.  She  did  both,  and 
her  technique  improved.  Naturally,  her  health 
did  not.  It  was  during  that  spring  that  she 


Women  Are  Made  Like  That  215 

met  Bruce  Morgan,  but  he  never  knew  how 
hard  life  was  for  her.  The  haughty  poise  of 
the  head  and  the  firm  lips  were  not  tale-bearers, 
and  though  the  man  had  seen  her  nerves  give 
way  once,  he  had  never  guessed  the  cause. 

Now  January  had  come,  and  the  game  was 
about  played  out. 

"I'm  tired — so  wretchedly  tired,"  she  said, 
drearily.  The  man's  arm  tightened  its  hold. 

"I'm  a  failure,  a  flat  failure.  I've  worked, 
but  it  isn't  in  me.  I  see  now,  but  I  believed  I 
was  right.  I've  left  the  school.  I  didn't  have 

the  money  to  go  on.  L talked  to  me 

to-day.  He  meant  to  be  kind.  He  told  me 
I  would  better  give  up  and  go  home — that  I  was 
killing  myself  for  an  ambition  that  would  never 
be  fulfilled,  that  I  was  wasting  money  and 
health  and  time." 

There  was  a  sharp  catch  in  the  tired  voice. 

"I  can't  go  home.  I  can't."  The  dreary, 
monotonous  voice  quickened  into  pain  and 
rebellion. 

When  the  pitiful  little  tale  was  ended,  he 
stooped  until  his  cheek  touched  hers. 

"Will  you  marry  me,  little  girl?  I've  loved 
you  all  the  time." 

She  shrank  away  quickly,  and  his  arm 
loosened  its  hold. 


2i6  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

"It  is  pity,"  she  said,  blushing  crimson  in 
the  dusk. 

"It  is  love,  sweetheart." 

"  I  ought  not  to  have  told  you,  but  I  was  so 
miserable,  and  you  came,  and  there  was  no  one 
else,  and— 

"Hush,  dear,  hush.  You  should  have  told 
me  before.  I  should  have  known  it  without 
telling.  I'm  a  brute." 

"And  you  really  wanted  to  marry  me,  before 
to-night?" 

"More  than  I  wanted  anything  else  in  the 
world." 

"But  I  don't  believe  I  love  you  enough." 

"Let  me  teach  you,"  She  closed  her  eyes 
and  lay  quite  still  for  a  few  moments ;  then  she 
looked  at  him. 

"  I  can't  promise  you  now.  I  think 
it  is  only  because  I  am  a  woman  and 
unhappy  that  I  am  so  glad  to  be  here  in 
your  arms." 

"  Bless  her  heart,  she  sha'n't  be  bothered 
about  deciding  anything  now.  She  isn't  even 
competent  to  decide  upon  her  o\vn  dinner,  so 
I'll  take  that  responsibility  off  her  hands." 
He  lifted  her  to  her  feet  and  smiled  at  her 
gayly. 

"Wash  off  the  tears,  put  on  your  hat  and 


Women  Are  Made  Like  That  217 

coat,  and  we'll  go  to  the  Tour  dy  Argent"  She 
looked  at  him  wonderingly. 

"I'll  have  another  try  for  the  salon"  she 
said,  thoughtfully.  Already  her  work  was 
crowding  him  aside. 

"Paint  me,"  he  suggested. 

She  looked  him  over  judicially. 

"Wouldn't  you  hate  it?" 

"I'd  like  it.  There's  no  law  to  prevent 
the  sitter  from  looking  at  the  painter,  is  there  ? " 

"  It  would  save  my  having  a  model,  and 
you  have  a  splendid  head,  and — but  it  would 
be  a  horrid  bore  for  you." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  I've  promised  to  have  a 
portrait  for  my  mother,  anyway." 

"  I  believe  I  can  do  it."  A  flush  was  stealing 
into  the  pale  cheeks,  and  the  head  was  taking 
its  old  self-confident  poise. 

"Then  that's  settled.  Now  for  dinner.  I'll 
wait  in  the  cab." 

Then  he  went  out  into  the  night,  carelessly 
whistling  "P'tite  Ninon." 

The  girl,  bathing  her  eyes  in  the  studio, 
smiled  at  the  gay  little  air,  and  hummed  it  as 
she  put  on  her  hat  and  coat. 

The  portrait  was  begun  the  following  week, 
and  Elizabeth  worked  steadily  through  the 
short,  gray  days.  Never  did  a  painter  have 


* 1 8  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

a  model  more  tireless,  and  if  the  sitter  chafed 
against  the  artist's  absorption  in  her  work,  he' 
showed  no  sign  of  his  irritation.  He  was  being 
painted  in  his  hunting  pink;  and  as  he  sat 
carelessly  on  the  solid  arm  of  a  great  settle, 
with  his  hunting-crop  across  his  knees  and  his 
scarlet  coat  flaming  against  the  high  oaken 
back  of  the  seat,  he  was  uncommonly  good  to 
look  at.  But  he  knew  quite  well  that,  so  far 
as  his  ladye -love's  vision  was  concerned,  he 
was  only  a  matter  of  colour  and  line  and 
values.  Another  man  might  have  been  dis 
couraged.  He  only  grew  more  doggedly  de 
termined,  and  gradually  he  felt  that  he  was 
making  way.  The  picture  was  the  thing,  but 
there  were  days  when  the  artist  worked  rest 
lessly,  when  her  eyes  looked  at  him  as  the  eyes 
of  a  maid  look  at  a  man,  instead  of  resolving 
him  into  madder  and  Prussian  blue,  when  she 
blushed  if  he  spoke  suddenly,  and  her  voice 
had  a  little  thrill  in  it,  as  if  some  song  were 
singing  itself  in  her  heart. 

He  had  much  to  do  on  those  days  in  keeping 
himself  from  walking  across  the  room,  kicking 
the  easel  aside,  picking  the  slender  little  woman 
up  in  his  arms,  and  holding  her  there  until  she 
would  promise  to  marry  him  before  sundown; 
but  he  kept  his  word  to  her,  and  waited. 


Women  Are  Made  Like  That          219 

He  had  never  promised  not  to  make  love  to 
her;  and  he  used  the  hours  as  a  lover  can. 
When  she  looked  from  her  canvas  to  her  sitter, 
she  met  his  soul  in  his  eyes,  but  she  understood 
so  little  that  she  never  realised  she  was  painting 
the  man's  love,  not  the  man.  He  talked  of  a 
host  of  things,  sometimes  gaily,  sometimes 
seriously,  but  always  it  was  of  love  he  talked, 
for  his  love  warmed  even  the  idlest  words  into 
a  caress.  He  told  her  of  his  home,  his  people, 
his  plans,  and  his  dreams,  taking  her  into  his 
life  as  he  had  taken  her  into  his  heart.  There 
were  days  when  he  tossed  self-restraint  aside 
and  made  masterful  love  to  her,  calling  her, 
with  his  lips,  the  names  by  which  his  heart 
knew  her.  But  he  asked  her  for  nothing;  and 
he  did  not  move  from  his  seat  on  the  old  settle, 
nor  touch  even  a  lock  of  the  rippling  brown 
hair,  or  a  curve  of  the  white  wrist  from  which 
the  cuff  rolled  back. 

How  he  learned  to  know  every  line  of  that 
dainty  head  and  figure  as  he  sat  and  watched 
them  day  after  day !  Her  upper  lip  had  a 
fashion  of  trembling  when  he  was  most  auda 
cious,  and  the  colour  that  flooded  throat  and 
cheeks  was  a  thing  to  conjure  with.  He  won 
dered  at  himself,  sometimes,  because  he  could 
sit  there,  across  the  room,  and  watch  the  colour 


22O  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

come  and  go,  and  hold  himself  from  kissing  the 
tremulous  upper  lip. 

After  the  sittings  there  was  tea,  while  the 
shadows  gathered,  and  the  candles  threw 
weird  flickering  lights  through  the  gloom;  and 
there  were  jolly  unchaperoned  dinners,  over 
which  Dame  Grundy  might  shake  her  head  in 
vain.  The  man's  conscience  pricked  him  at 
times.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  was  not  taking 
good  care  of  her,  but  who  was  there  to  criticise 
her  going  or  coming  ?  And  in  two  months  she 
would  be  his  wife. 

The  portrait  went  well.  Elizabeth  felt  sure 
of  that,  and  yet  she  had  learned  self -distrust, 
and  dared  not  believe  in  her  own  judgment. 
Morgan  had  never  even  seen  the  canvas.  That 
was  one  of  his  ladye's  whims,  and  he  bowed 
to  it,  as  to  all  others — the  more  willingly, 
perhaps,  because  he  did  not  believe  in  her 
success,  and  feared  his  praise  of  failure  would 
not  ring  true. 

At  last  the  sittings  ended.  One  afternoon 
Elizabeth  threw  down  her  brush. 

"I've  put  all  I  have  into  it,"  she  said.  "It 
will  have  to  stand  so."  Instinctively  she  held 
out  her  hands  to  him.  Her  upper  lip  was 
trembling,  and  he  stooped  and  kissed  it. 

"You  have  been  the  best  friend  a  girl  ever 


Women  Are  Made  Like  That  221 

had,"  she  faltered.  "Will  you  go  away  for  a 
little  while  now,  and  let  me  think  ?  Some  way 
or  other  I — I  don't  seem  to  think  clearly  when 
you  are  here." 

He  laughed  gladly,  confidently. 

"Don't  try  to  think,   little  one.     Feel!" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,  I  mean  it.  I'm  not  sure  about  any 
thing.  Don't  come  again  this  week.  Next 
Monday  I  shall  be  here.  Come  then — please 
— dear."  A  light  flamed  in  his  eyes.  He  bent 
his  head  and  kissed  the  hands  he  held. 

"Till  Monday,  then— dearest." 

When  he  went  away,  on  Monday,  he  left  his 
promised  wife  behind  him,  and  she  herself  did 
not  understand  why  she  threw  herself  down 
on  the  couch  and  cried  stormily. 

The  portrait  had  gone  to  the  salon  judges, 
and  the  artist  seemed,  in  some  strange  way, 
to  have  lost  all  interest  in  its  fate.  She 
expected  nothing  of  it,  hardly  thought 
of  it,  in  her  love -warmed  days.  One  morn 
ing  she  received  a  despatch.  It  was  from 
Bruce. 

"  Hope  I  am  first  to  tell  you  your  picture 
has  a  place  on  the  line." 

She  rose  and  walked  unsteadily  toward  the 
open  window,  stood  for  a  moment  staring  out 


222  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

into  the  sunshine,  then  quietly  fainted  upon 
the  floor. 

It  was  later  that  the  full  extent  of  her 
victory  dawned  upon  her.  L —  -  came  to  her 
with  the  artists'  verdict. 

"I  was  a  fool,"  he  said,  frankly,  "and  you 
are  a  genius.  It  is  the  picture  of  the  year.  I 
would  not  have  believed  it  possible." 

The  critics  chanted  a  chorus  of  praise.  She 
walked  through  the  triumphant  days  as 
if  in  a  dream.  The  success  was  too  swift, 
too  complete  to  seem  real,  and  the  pale 
face  wore  a  wondering,  troubled  expression, 
instead  of  the  gladness  for  which  those  who 
knew  her  looked. 

"Some  day  I  shall  waken,"  she  said,  incred 
ulously,  to  her  lover.  He  looked  at  her  wist 
fully.  In  his  heart  he  was  glad  of  her  triumph, 
but  he  was  uneasy,  restless.  He  did  not  under 
stand  his  sweetheart's  mood,  and  he  felt, 
vaguely,  that  his  happiness  \vas  threatened  by 
these  laurels  that  had  fallen  among  his  roses 
and  violets.  She  had  never  been  ardent,  this 
little  love  of  his,  but  she  had  trembled  and 
glowed  under  his  ardour.  Now,  she  seemed 
as  remote  and  unimpassioned  as  if  their  lips 
had  never  met. 

One  night  he  went  away  puzzled,  unhappy. 


Women  Are  Made  Like  That  223 

The  next  morning  Watkins  brought  a  letter 
with  the  coffee. 

"Dear,"  she  wrote,  "I've  wakened,  but  the 
dream  was  true,  and  all  the  rest  was  dream. 
I  hate  to  hurt  you,  but  I  would  hurt  you  more 
if  I  married  you.  Art  was  always  first,  but  I 
thought  I  had  failed.  I  haven't.  The  thing 
I  have  slaved  for,  prayed  for,  starved  for,  has 
come — come  just  when  I  thought  it  lost  for 
ever,  and  it  seems  to  me  I  shall  go  mad  with 
the  joy  of  it.  I  realise  now  that  love  could 
never  have  taken  its  place,  though  love  might 
have  helped  me  bear  its  loss. 

"Try  to  understand.  Some  other  woman 
will  make  you  happy.  I  could  not.  There 
would  always  be  a  rival  far  dearer  to  me  than 
you  could  ever  be. 

"  Don't  come.  Don't  write.  It  would  only 
make  things  harder.  Forgive  me,  and  let  me 
stay  where  I  belong.  "ELIZABETH." 

Of  course  he  wrote,  of  course  he  went;  but 
it  was  all  useless.  There  is  no  adamant  like  a 
slender  girl  egoist.  He  did  not  rage  nor  waste 
reproaches.  That  was  not  his  way — but,  as 
he  said  good-bye,  she  saw,  with  the  artist's 
eye  for  detail,  that  his  face  looked  white  and 


224  Nancy's  Country  Christmas 

old,  and  that  new  lines  had  appeared  around 
his  lips  since  she  had  painted  his  portrait. 

The  next  day  two  great  artists  stood  before 
the  famous  salon  portrait. 

"It  is  a  miracle,"  said  one,  thoughtfully;  "an 
unknown  little  art  student,  and  a  picture  like 
that!" 

His  companion  laughed  cynically. 

"No  miracle.  I  call  it  luck.  It  isn't  given 
to  every  painter  of  portraits  to  see  a  naked 
soul.  This  little  woman  saw  one  and  it  startled 
her  into  genius.  How  he  adored  her — and  she 
painted  it!  Women  are  made  like  that!" 


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